Tomorrow Is Fading
by Kureiji-Kurai
Summary: It never fails in the life of Molly Hooper, she is always used to get to one man. People are never who she believes. Why does she fall for it? It's just her type? Sherlock did warn her to stop dating after Moriarty. She should have listened. Sherlock's pathologist; he always gets her so much attention and she never really wants it, especially when it means she is a target.
1. Prologue

Tomorrow Is Fading

**Prologue**

*BBC Sherlock

* * *

><p>The latex gloves snapped loudly in the vacant room as Molly Hooper peeled them from her hands to toss them into the dustbin. With a deep sigh she rinsed off her hands before running her fingers over the curve of her head to be sure no random dark hairs had come free from her ponytail. Being on loan to another lab was not her idea of the best of times. She preferred her own where she knew where everything was and could use her own systems rather than conforming to someone else's. Her time here was over though, thankfully.<p>

The young pathologist made her way out of the unfamiliar laboratory and found her way back to the hallway. It was quiet but she made no particular note of it until she saw the red light ignited over the main doors and saw that they had been systematically sealed; air tight. Now that she thought of it, the air had not been running for some time.

She stared in dumb silence at the closed door, brown eyes narrowed, trying to understand what she saw before her. Why had there been no alarm if it was some fort of chemical leak? The light was on, the door was locked, but there had been absolutely no alert given and there should have been. No one locked down a lab without sounding an alarm or at least announcing something. Perhaps the door was simply malfunctioning and she needed to call up the front desk. It might be reason to panic but she would not allow herself to do so if there was indeed no cause.

This might just be one more addition to why she hated to be on loan to any other location. She hated being the guest in anyone's facility because she was unfamiliar with their individual problems. Had this been St. Bart's, she would already know if they had been having system issues and it would be no problem to get it fixed. Likewise, she would know if some imbecile down the hall was actually fool enough to contaminate the entire floor with heaven knew what!

Now she needed to find a phone. Though, she also needed to let Sherlock know she might be later getting to the station than planned. He would be less than pleased at being kept waiting. If it was possible, he might hate being on loan to another department more than she did. Granted, John and Greg were with him, the lot of them all shipped off for the case, but it was still the least of fun things on any of their lists. Lestrade had been in a particular sour mood over it, she recalled. He was loathed to submit to another department, not keen on how this one handled things. Inefficient was what he called them, among some other more colorful descriptions.

"Hello, Molly... sorry to inconvenience you, but you can't go out that way. You won't be leaving at all for a while, actually." The calm, low voice spoke slowly and all too softly for what she understood he was really implying.

The breath was stolen from her lungs in that moment, heart stopping, knees wavering, tears nearly springing to her eyes because she knew without turning around who that voice belonged to. The was why there had been no alarm. He trapped her in here, making sure she would not know she was in trouble until it was too late. The phone lines to the front office would not be working either.

Well, too late or not, she would be damned if she did not try to get away! Molly bolted, legs pumping the way they had not done in quite a while, carrying her into an unfamiliar room. Any room with a door was good enough for her and she snapped the button to lock just as the handle jiggled. Her heart might never have beaten this fast in her life!

"That won't actually stop me, you know? It just buys you about one minute and seventeen seconds." The muffled voice on the other side droned, but Molly was not listening, she was searching for the heaviest object in the room like a woman possessed.

Somewhere in that process she managed to get her phone from her lab coat pocket, trembling fingers only just scrolling to Sherlock's name. She missed the dial button the first time but got it the second. Cradling it to her ear with her shoulder, she hefted the little machine she dug from its wires and jerked it free, groaning with the weight of it as she dragged it with her to her only potential hope. The irritating and surprisingly grating sound of ringing was already about to drive her mad even though it had only gone about three times. She could hear the door being rattled as he obviously began picking the lock. She was already almost out of time!

"What is it, Molly? Are you on your way? I do hope so because-"

She cut him off in a hushed but frantic voice, "He's here! Sherlock, he's here! I'm locked in a room but he'll be through the door any second!"


	2. All That You Can Fake

Tomorrow Is Fading

All That You Can Fake

*BBC Sherlock

*Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, Tom, etc.

AN: Just an idea I had and it wouldn't go away. After the thought came it just became this huge headcannon. I have no idea where the show will go and I don't claim to, but however it goes, this is my own personal desire.

This is just before "His Last Vow" in the timeline.

* * *

><p>Molly paced long circles in the parking lot, the light from the street lamps making her shadow dance as she coiled her fingers together. Her smooth, dark-honey hair was still pulled back into a ponytail, a usual style for her. It did not even dawn on her that she was quietly muttering to herself. Her coat was a little too thin for the cool of the night air but she did not even notice it. No one else was going to convince her this was going to end well so she clearly had to keep herself convinced which was not an easy task in this case.<p>

She could do this! There was no problem doing it, people did it all the time, didn't they? Yes, they did! If others did it, she could! After all, she was bloody well a grown woman! At St. Bart's, wasn't she the best? Wasn't she the only one Sherlock would really work with more than once or twice?

No, no, best not think on that just now.

Focus! Yes, think positive! She could do this!

Head held high, she strolled confidently into the restaurant, taking the first open table as her conquest. She sat there, back strait, reminding herself of all her accomplishments, practically reciting her resume to herself. Of course she could handle something simple like this! She was Molly Hooper, a strong woman and great pathologist. She had written well respected journals in her field! She might not have been well known but she was good at what she did.

Her fingers had begun carding absently through her hair, big brown eyes darting around every corner of the little family owner eatery. Most of the time she was only this nervous when Sherlock walked into her lab. Well, this was to do with him so that could have been the issue. Or maybe she was just not used to being the one to do things like this.

Her body jolted in such a jump it hurt when the bell signaled the door opening too loudly. A dark curly head of hair, soft eyes, big scarf, and long coat walked in and she nearly lost all the blood from her head. Panic hit when his light eyes found her and he smiled with the sweet way he always had as he walked over to the booth.  
>No, no, she could bloody well not do this! What was she thinking? Dear God, she should have just sent a text! It was cold but it would have made this so easy!<p>

He sat down opposite her, grinning wide, with teeth flashing at her in that boyish way. She dropped her hands under the table to keep him from seeing them shake and she smiled with much less enthusiasm. This was going to be a long night.

"Hey, Molly!" Tom just continued smiling, "Have you already ordered?"

It's off, say it, say it! Voices were yelling at her in her brain to just cut to the chase, not drag it out, end it.

"Not yet." Was what came out instead.

Coward, a bloody coward was what she was. Every time she opened her mouth she intended to say it, but every time, the words caught on her tongue and some chatty thing rolled out. They chatted and had dinner, not that she could remember from one bite to the next what she ordered. The food came and was gone and she still didn't say all the things she planned, stalled desperately and waited for the perfect time to drop her rehearsed speech onto him. Tell him it wasn't working, avoid telling him how Sherlock returning made her dread having to see him. Avoid saying that she finally admitted to herself that he was and always had been a replacement. Her missing that man drove her to latch onto a man that looked and dressed and even smelled like Sherlock.

Those were things she would not say. Not mention how terribly guilty she was for it all. Telling him any of that would be unkind. At least as unkind as telling him she found him inferior, thought his mind could never be as sharp as one beautiful man she admired. Actually, she did not think he even was on her plane, or John's, or Greg's plane because there were times he just did not track the simplest things!

She realized that quite keenly at the wedding when the two men were in the same room. The fact that Tom was not enthralled was irritating while Sherlock spoke, but the fact that he was rude too made her want to kill him. She had been embarrassed of Tom, terribly shamed to be with him that day. It wasn't fair to him, how she felt and she knew it, but it did not change the fact that that was how she felt.

He just lacked. Lacked things she wanted him not to. Maybe he was simply too normal. Her world revolved around things that could never be called normal and she liked it that way. Tom was normal and he simply did not fit into the puzzle that was her life. She tried to ignore it but she realized at last that she was hanging onto him just to keep from going back to her old ways with Sherlock. She was just ending up there anyway, Tom or not, but that just heaped guilt on her head.

It really was useless. No one would live up to Sherlock. He ruined every man alive for her but she stopped caring, just glad he was back alive.

The plates were gone and suddenly she realized that she had no more time to stall. The shaking returned hard and it was all she could do to keep her teeth from chattering from nerves. She was not good at this! Never broke an engagement before and didn't know how to begin. There was nothing in her that was one of the girls she saw in University breaking engagements every few months.

She did the first thing she thought of, reaching into her coat pocket to pull out the ring. He had not noticed she wasn't wearing it even though she hoped he would. Sherlock would have noticed, her mind chided Tom derisively, but she did not voice it. Instead, she slid the ring over the table and let it sit in front of him, pulling her hand safely back to her lap, eyes fixed on his chest to avoid looking at his face.

He picked it up, working it with his fingers, "Why are you giving it to me?"

Such a Tom thing to say, the nit, missing the obvious, "Because it belongs to you."

He grinned and laughed, oblivious, the perk to his voice grating her nerves, "I gave it to you, remember?"

"Yes." Molly nearly gagged on the next words, taking a long pause, "And ... I'm giving it back."

Silence hung in the air like a declaration of war and she waited for him to yell at her.

"Why?" He sounded so confused, face twisting into a puzzled expression.

He did not yell. It would make it too easy on her if he yelled. It would not make her feel so queasy if he raged at her because then she could be angry right back. Of course he would never do that. Her life was not that easy.

"Because I'm not good at relationships. I'm already married to my work." Her words were all true, every word and the words between the lines all the more. "I've come to realize, as happy as being with you made me, it's not fair to you if I ask you to stay. I will never be anything but my job. I will never be a wife, not a good one, at least."

She was not out rightly lying. That had been true, and she would not make a good wife. Not when she only wanted to be at the morgue and be Sherlock's pathologist. While he was gone, Tom did make her happy, but not now. He filled a place when she needed it filled. In the dark moments when she was not sure Sherlock could possibly survive, she could pretend he was safely sitting with her at the pub. She could not stand the fear while Sherlock was gone and Tom made it easier to make believe.

Honestly, she never loved him. She liked him well enough as a person, but that was all. That would not be entering this conversation though. It was better to make it seem like she was doing this for Tom, make her the bad guy, because it was her fault. She could shoulder the blame and be quite fine with it.

* * *

><p>Tom relaxed in his arm chair, lights dimmed low as he watched the fish in the tank across the room swim about. The tinted water reflected blue on the carpet below it in a flawed triangle that shifted and danced like real water. There were even numbers to each color and breed, even number of plants, one castle, one treasure chest with bubble lid, and one plecostomus.<p>

He chewed his nail lightly, working the ring with his other hand. It had been unexpected to have her leaving him as well as inconvenient. Not that he could not work around it. Obviously he would still come around, playing a desperate man still in love and trying to win her back. That would be easy!

It would be as easy to linger in her life as it had been to enter it. All it had taken was mingling in the right circles until she appeared. She had been ready the minute he walked into her life. He had always been a great student of people and drama. Things all lead back to probable causes and equations if you knew how to map it. Chemicals drove people in their habits and that was predictable. He found the study interesting, found he had a skill for understanding the odd behaviors once he found a persons pattern.

Every play in high school and university cast him as one lead or another because he was painfully good in any roll they offered. He excelled in the at of drama. Walking into her life and offering her himself in curly hair-a style he hated, preferring it jelled and straight-with a long coat and scarf chosen just for their similarity to that man, easy.

Playing her Sherlock, but one in love and shy as well as non threatening, another simple task. It allowed him to stay very close and watch everything and everyone in her circle. All of it was simple and she talked about every little thing, told him about John and Mary, Greg, Anderson and his obsessive needs. Learning with Molly, it could have been an educational show.

"Sebastian, did you call for me?" A low and quiet voice called from the door.

"My name is **Tom**, remember? Don't get sloppy!" He chided snappily. "And yes, I called you." Standing up, he walked to the tank and started into the water a moment before holding the ring over the top and releasing it to sink down into the two inch thick sand bellow.

It had been fun playing a shy, confidence lacking, dense version of the detective. The girl had even been entertaining. Sherlock had something there. He never quite put his finger on why, but she was interesting. There was something about Ms. Hooper that pulled him, and must have pulled the others too. It was a puzzle he needed a bit more time to understand. To understand though, he needed to see her with other subjects like Sherlock. He had not gotten as much of that as he would have liked.

Of course, he needed more time to study Sherlock on his own as well. That was part of the game, the game they all seemed to be playing now without knowing it.

While he got few benefits most men offering a ring would get from their intended, it was still fun. Though many eyes tended to be on her, her eyes were only for one man. Everything she did revolved around that one focus. She might not agree, but he saw the pattern. Romancing her had been no different than a play, taking on a carefully studied roll. He did get closer than most to winning the prize, though he was not sure what he would have done with her if she had married him, he still got the farthest of the three of them. She never had really taken him fully to her bed, which disappointed him only because he liked the idea of having that one over on Holmes and probably Moriarty. No matter. He was not finished yet.

* * *

><p>After dinner, Molly went to the lab to find a little comfort. Being at a morgue should not be the first place a normal person would run to relax but she already established that she was not normal. Her sigh, deep and long, echoed over the clean walls and floors. She felt like the lowest of the low. Maybe the flesh eating bacteria were better than she was at this point. She had never come so close to making a grown man cry. He was very composed, but she saw the stress in his face, the crinkling and watering in his eyes.<p>

She never wanted to hurt him, didn't set out to, she just hadn't been thinking clearly after Sherlock. It was never that she tried to use him, because she hadn't. She went out of her way not to use him. It just had not worked out that way. It was not exactly fair, what she did.

Her eyes focused carefully down the leans of her scope, watching the pink tinted creature squiggle. If she was going to be a bit more honest with herself, she had really been hoping that Sherlock might be here tonight as he had often been in the past. It would have been better than nice to have seen him. They did not need to talk. Seeing his face was good enough even if that did put her on the level with a high school girl with a crush. Love and money were the great equalizers. That and death, of course.

Having not seen him in quite some time was getting to her. It had to be a case, of course, but that did not ease her mind. John was not around as much to keep him out of trouble, which tended to be a bad thing. John had really helped Sherlock. She remembered how he was before they met. Not that she had not loved him then, but she worried less when John entered the picture.

It was childish but she really wanted him to walk in, muddling around in his usual fuss. She could see him in her minds eye, shuffling pipettes around, but he would look up suddenly, frown and look down again. A little time would pass and then he would make some offhand comment that her ring was not on her hand or in her locker anymore, something he should not know, but did. He would say something else, comment on her ending the relationship and she could bask in the glow of being free of it. That ring was awfully heavy on her finger when Sherlock looked at her, even if she was not wearing it at the time.

A rather giddy laugh left her lips, her eyes sparkling even though Sherlock was not around. Her little fantasy helped it sink in. She was free! She rather liked that feeling! A few months ago she might not have expected to feel so light after breaking an engagement, but she really did! Maybe this was why other girls did it. It was almost a high, being rid of something that weighed her down so long.

Little did she know in that moment that the little giddy feeling should have been her first clue that things were about to go horribly, catastrophically wrong in her life. As long as anyone was around Sherlock bloody Holmes, happy moments tended to be the beginning of the world shattering into pieces.

* * *

><p>AN:The bad guys always use Molly because she seemed the easy way in. She has horrid luck with men and I just identify with that so much! I love her for it!<p>

When she said: "Maybe it's just my type." That just planted a worm in my brain, you know? I desperately wanted this trend to continue! I don't want Molly to have dated that ONE normal guy, I want it to get twisted, because Molly is like John! She attracts these men! Look at the people she spends her time with! She is one of those kinds of girls that just draws them in somehow without knowing it! I was desperate for Tom to be a bad guy since he first showed up.

Oh, and that lab scene in a Sign of Three. I honestly think she was teasing him. She was smirking the whole time. She was teasing him and intentionally making him as uncomfortable as he always made her. Little payback. I know there are a lot of schools of thought on this, but I have my own and it fits my story plot. I don't even think she liked Tom enough to let him go all the way. I could be wrong but I don't think there is room enough in Molly's heart for any but Sherlock. I have my theories on her and I'll explain more later.  
>The story will be mainly from Molly's perspective.<p> 


	3. One Step Closer

_Tomorrow Is Fading_

_One Step Closer_

_*BBC Sherlock_

_*Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, Tom/Sebastian, Greg Lestrade, etc._

_AN: Again, I don't claim to know where the show is headed, but I have wishes! I could never buy Lord Moran as being Moriarty's right hand man. I didn't even realize he was based off him for the entire show. Moran just isn't that guy to me at all and I was waiting for it not to be the same man. Sebastian is bigger than that to me, would play a bigger roll. Though I do have plans on the Lord Moran angle._

_Hints of Sherlock teasing. I admit, first two chapters are setting my stage a bit, with a few fun moments, leading to the big issue at hand._

* * *

><p>Sherlock was not a fair man. He did terrible things regardless of how much they would shred the hearts right out of the people fool enough to love him. A beautiful, brilliant, cruel man. To be sure, he was a diamond in the rough, but that roughness cut so deeply into a heart that the bleeding almost could not be stopped. The worst of it was, he never knew how deeply he hurt others until it was simply too late.<p>

The simple fact of the matter was that she had never been as angry with Sherlock Holmes as when John marched him into her lab looking like he should have been sleeping with his network, or might have been for all she knew. The gray tint, hazy and unfocused eyes, puffy eyes, dirty hair and clothing told her more than she wanted to know. She ran the tests begging her eyes to have been wrong, wishing she did not know what she would find. Every piece of the test made her chest physically ache. She was shaking for a different reason then. It took so much will power not to just cry.

Not long before that she had come to work every day just wishing to see him there. It was ironic, really, because seeing him like that just made her want to never see him again just to abate the pain of the moment.

Rather than show him weakness he could exploit, she tapped into her anger. She had heaped all her anger up over the pain to be able to deal with it and give an attempt at being useful. No one could stop him but she had to try or just let him become another statistic in the sad and horrific spiral she had witnessed before working in a hospital.

The truth was, fear drove her too, not strictly anger, because if Sherlock tunneled down into the depths of that then none of them would ever be able to reach him again. She could never stand by and watch him di-watch him slip away. She could never hope to hold him up and away from that but she attempted in the only way she knew how.

As it always was though, he did slip away again the second he left. Oh, not that he did not leave his mark, because he always did. It would have been hysterical how right her mind was about him noticing the lack of ring if not for the fact that Sherlock coming in high never entered into her hypothesis. He did notice though, noticed drugged what Tom did not grasp stone sober. She could really pick them!

Sitting curled into a ball on the floor with every light in the lab off, she could almost have laughed at those memories. She really could never catch a single break in life. It would have been nice if just a few things could go right in her life but they never did.

"Such horrible things... You always get me into such horrible things, Sherlock." A sick sounding chuckle rippled from her throat as she fisted her hair into her fingers. He dropped her into these situations and always left her to them, left her to deal with them on her own. That was exactly how she got tangled up with Tom to begin with, trying to deal alone.

She never would regret saving his life but she had a great many other regrets to contend with. She could not bring herself to regret anything she did with Sherlock, even as she trembled in the dark like a stupid child hiding under the covers to keep away from the Boogeyman. It was irrational to hide in the dark but it was the only thing she could think of to do to protect herself. He was not here, and Greg was not answering his phone, so she would do what she needed to. She could think back as she sat here, analyzing every thing she had done recently and wondering what she missed.

She missed something, missed someone she should have noticed. Or maybe she missed nothing. Sherlock had not seen the signs either so maybe it was not her fault. A single tear leaked out of the corner of her eye and she did not bother to wipe it away, just letting herself think. Her throat closed to keep her from continuing. She would not cry aloud, it would only bring her trouble if anyone heard the noise, anyone she did not want to find her.

Oh, God, please not that! She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall, willing herself into the past week. Thinking over them would make the time pass by more quickly. No, best not think about the present.

Think of Sherlock, because he always made the world right eventually.

Dear, horrible Sherlock.

* * *

><p>After leaving her lab Sherlock was gone again, leaving her to worry and wonder if he was hold up in another den slowly killing himself. No one told her a bloody thing, they never did! She asked Greg but no one told him a bloody thing either unless Sherlock wanted information on a case. Greg was not foolish enough to go looking when Sherlock did not come to him, it would only start more problems. Not that the detective knew about the drugs any more than she would have had they not used her lab. Hush hush, as most things like that were.<p>

There had been times she nearly told the poor man the truth about Sherlock's death while she watched him lose weight, gain some, and lose again as he struggled with his ill placed guilt he could never voice. He was usually the last to know, one of the last, the same as she was. It made her feel a slight kinship with DI Lestrade because they were both supposed to be such a big part of the world, supposed to be friends, coworkers, and in the loop with the great man, but here they both were just waiting for him to drop them a piece of time at some point when he might be bored.

Bored would mean asking Lestrade about cases or asking her for spare pieces of bodies to test. It was torture. He always pulled people in, made them care and then pushed them away.

What an open relationship they all had! He may have taken her on cases, and she might have secretly believed that put her a cut above, but he still did not regard her more highly than the general population. He told her she mattered.

A particularly bitter part of her wondered if she might have mattered, warranted at least a text had she never picked up with Tom. Resentment was a little keener when she considered that. It would be easy to blame Tom but she knew that wasn't exactly fair. He filled a hole for her and she should be grateful for his helping her sanity.

Summoning men with her thoughts only seemed to work in the cases of ones she did not want to see.

"Hey, Molly..." A quietly hopeful voice slammed into her from the door to the lockers.

She tried very hard to keep her shoulders from sagging, "Hello, Tom." She did not turn around to look at him, knowing what he was likely to say, things he asked the past two times he found her by the lockers. He would ask to take her to dinner, clarify that it would only be as friends, and watch her with big puppy eyes. She had made excuses every time so far.

He was smiling like a hopeless child at her in the mirror and she forced a slight returning smile.

"I was over down the street and I thought I might drop in to ask if you had any plans for a meal. If you were free, and I am free, I thought we might join each other in our free time." He flinched at the awkwardness of his own words. "That is to say, what I mean is, since I was around, I thought I might see if you were hungry. I know you like to eat!" he floundered again, "Not to imply that you eat too much! I only-"

Molly cut in before it could get worse, she could swear he blundered that badly on purpose sometimes, "It is sweet of you to offer but I'm quite tired. Doubt if I would be very good company tonight."

His posture slumped a little, those dark curls falling a little more into his face, "Well, I didn't guess you would want to but I thought it might be worth a go anyway." A sheepish smile parted his lips.

Her smile brightened a bit because he had a contagious kind of spark that forced others to smile more, "It is sweet of you to offer. It was nice to see you."

He suddenly looked hopeful and she could have slapped herself for giving him even a slight bit of hope. It was not fair to encourage him, it was unkind to give him hope when none existed. She knew exactly how painful that hope could be. False hope simply drug out the inevitable.

"Unfortunately, I have to do some paperwork before I go."

Tom nodded dejectedly, voice quiet as always, "I best be out of your way then."

"Have a good evening, Tom!" Molly supplied him with a tight lipped smile and a wave as she turned for her office. She felt so cold to leave him like that, so unfeeling, but how else could she be? Anything else would be more cruel. She did not know how to be nice without leading him on.

This was all so unpleasant, torture actually. It all made her want to curl up in her bed with Toby and never come out. Sometimes she wondered why she bothered to try. The men she wanted never wanted her in return but the men that did want her were ones she could not stand. Life had a funny way of doing that. Nothing was eve on time. The one time Sherlock seemed to want her even slightly was when she had been stubborn and rebellious. Now, once again, he did not want her and she was left to ponder every little detail about what she should do differently. Being desperate was never enjoyable in the slightest. She hated never knowing anything, which was why she held onto Tom so long. At least she knew him, knew how he felt and how he would always be. Familiar was safer though not always better. Hanging onto a man she did not love was no better than watching another from the corner without being seen.

What was wrong with her? Why could she never get it right? It was infuriating how her life traveled in circles. Those circles revolved around Sherlock and random men she occasionally tried to make it work with. Of course, those usually had a side agenda if she was quite honest with herself. They were really only there to get Sherlock to see that some men did find her desirable and that she wasn't unappealing. Pitiful attempts to make him jealous, though how she ever thought that would work was beyond her. Those had not ended well considering she was not the only one with a side agenda. Dating a Criminal's criminal pretty well did top most of her failures though.

It had been painfully long since she had seen that bloody man and that made it so much wore. She had stopped by Baker St. a few times, starting up at the dark window like some kind of stalker. From what she could see, he had never been there. If he had, she missed him every time. The only time she saw signs of life had been a few days ago, and John had clearly been there, so she did not both to go up. She could not bring herself to make a fool of herself even to check on Sherlock. She had been inside, a few steps away from going up the steps, but she turned and ran at the last second, panicked. She found she was not sure she wanted to know what she might find. If he was spiraling, she did not have the courage to find out.

That, and several weeks ago she had seen a woman coming out and something about it gave her an absolutely awful feeling. She remembered the woman from the wedding and remembered how closely she had been sticking to Sherlock. Not that she could picture that man snogging anyone, but she had not believed he would be stupid enough to take those drugs either. If he had gotten together with her while he was high, well, she might as well not dwell there. Stray thoughts had crossed her mind unpleasantly, telling her he would rather bed a strange woman rather than spend time with her even when he was drugged enough to get frisky.

She needed to stop!

She should face it, lingering around a mans flat to try and deduce how he was could be termed a new low for her. She would give up any and all notions of finding anything out. Absolutely no one would tell her anything anyway. She could not bring herself to openly linger on his door like a gypo.

I was then that she had really withdrawn. She decided it was best to give it up. Molly resisted visiting the flat after that self declaration. Nothing stood out to her as different though, no signs of a pending storm ready to drop a deluge on her head. There should have been some kind of sign but she would be hanged if she could thing of anything. No one had been watching her come or go that she noticed. Nothing! She even changed her habits a bit.

She avoided Tom artfully, even if that meant literally running or ducking into a closet to keep him from spotting her. He only caught her a few times. Only once she agreed to have coffee with him in the lobby, stubbornly keeping all topics on his work or hers and ignoring ever comment he made hinting at missing her. She did very well, she would say. She was using her backbone as much as possible. To avoid Tom, she even went out with coworkers for a pint some nights to fool herself and the world into thinking she had a life.

That was all shattered quite totally when Greg visited to confirm some tests. They were friends, so of course they chatted. His hair was short now, he had changed it a few times after Sherlock left, settling now on the army cut to his pepper and salt hair. Most everything else was the same as always though, he spoke the same and dressed the same. Peacefully typical in the life of crime. He spoke of his wife, and work, and the case. He told her about the frustrating nature of the case at hand.

That was the time she took a daring step. The time just before everything went to pot.

"Why don't you ask Sherlock to look into that?" She asked so off handedly and innocently hr dud not even blink.

"I might but I'm trying to let the git rest an all. Think the brass neck's off with family today anyway."

That surprised her, "So he hasn't been working any cases for you all this time?" She tried hard to be conversational, not tip her hand.

"Not since he left the hospital. I figured he could rest while we tried to sort it all out. He's been no help in catching the bloke that shot him anyway."

Molly's eyes widened, not realizing she gasped until he mirrored her shocked expression, "What? When?"

He gaped at her for a full minute, stout jaw gone slack, "I thought you knew!" He rubbed the back of his head with his hand in nervousness, "Guess I should never assume around here." Greg shrugged, his light, perpetually tired eyes sympathetic, "You needn't worry, he's just fine. He sneaked out of the hospital once, even. John's staying with him to make sure he recovers right and good."

Her brain could not quite move past the main point of the story, "When was he shot?"

His eyes rolled up in thought as well as to keep from looking at her, "A few weeks back. He sneaked into Magnussen's office building and interrupted a burglary, so Magnussen says."

Her body was ridged with tension she had no way to release, "What did Sherlock say?"

"Not a bloody lot. He's been tight lipped about it all, says he can't remember much." Greg's eyes clouded with frustration, "Like I haven't known him long enough to tell when he's just being a git, but anyway ... I should have called you. I thought to but-"

"No, no, it's fine." Molly cut him off quickly, the need to throw up her shields strong enough she could not keep the cool numbness away, "It's quite alright, I was just surprised is all." She surprised even herself with a laugh, "Guess that explains why he hasn't been begging for severed parts."

* * *

><p>Molly's eyes opened wide as a light kicked on in the hallway outside the lab doors. Her heart was making patterns on the inside of her ribs as she clutched her hand saw to her chest. The lab seemed her safest choice. If she went home she could not really defend herself. At least here there were weapons usually used to open dead bodies, but they would work on living ones too. She crawled soundlessly away from the corner to hide behind the counter, clutching madly at the saw.<p>

Seeing that face again on the screen was like being hit over the head a thousand times with a hammer. "Did you miss me?"

God, no, she really had not missed him! She had been so glad to have him dead and gone, out of her life and Sherlock's. Even now, after everything, she could scarcely believe she let such a man walk into her life, let him fool her. For pity sake, she thought he was a nice, kind, gentle man! She had liked him! Not love, mind, but liked him. She never went for the right types of men and she had no idea what the reason for that was. She even tried to switch up her types with him.

He used her to get close to Sherlock and then fortunately decided that she did not matter enough to threaten and watch. That was their saving grace, sure, then it had been. By this time, if he was alive, that would have changed. Anderson had been quite clear in all his theories that he was sure Molly played a part in the grand deception, which she had. Jim would know everything, he always was a step ahead of everyone else.

Panic set in after every monitor in her lab had been taken over by his face. Paranoia was close on its heels. She just knew he meant her to see his face, knew he was looking directly at her. Every shadow morphed into his, each sound was his laugh, each time the air kicked on it was his breathing. She was a reasonable woman but even logic could not sway terror. Perhaps Sherlock could simply turn off emotion, not feel anything, but she couldn't. Jim-Moriarty was taunting them all, warning them that he would be coming for them in short order.

Moriarty hated to lose, and she helped it to happen. He was sure to come for her even if she had no idea when. It could be a bomb in her car, so she could not drive it. He could have broken into her apartment and be waiting in her living room with a set of horrible tools to kill her slowly, so she could not go home. He might have a sniper waiting for her on the roof, so leaving was also out.

Staying in the darkened lab was clearly her very best option. Anyone coming would have to turn on lights because they did not know this place the way she did. She would know when they were coming for her and she would have a chance to defend herself. The truth was, he might not come for her but she did not want to die at his hands if he did come. Paranoid was better than dead.

Blood pounded in her ears so hard it was painful when the doors swished open and feet padded through with the light switch following. Her hand clamped over her mouth as she waited, taking tiny breaths to avoid them being heard. In all her life she never would have believed she could hurt anyone, but if he walked through her doors, swear to heaven, she would do it! Regret for taking a life would come later on.

She counted each slow step they took, picturing in her mind exactly where they would be, what section of her lab they would be in. If they did not leave in three minutes, she would spring on them.

_Five. Four. Three. Two._

"Molly?" The dark, low rumbling purr of that voice slammed into her like a little piece of liquid heaven.

Molly scrambled to her feet, tool still clutched to her chest as her eyes swept up and down that tall figure she knew so well, "Sherlock?"

Maybe she had lost her mind but she did not really care if it was a dream. Lush curly hair, piercing blue-green eyes, scarf tied around his neck, coat hanging perfectly in place with the collar turned slightly up. It was all there. She had dropped the electric saw on the table and curled both arms around his neck in seconds, standing on the tips of her toes. Her body was trembling like a leaf but she could not stop it as she clawed at the back of his coat to pull him closer in her desperation to be sure he was real.

He did not stiffen up the way he might have in the past but he did not touch her either. He would hate being touched and clung onto like this but fear erased all her usual needs to help keep him comfortable. He could be uncomfortable right now for all she cared. For this moment she only cared about assuring herself that it was Sherlock Holmes standing in her lab and not anyone else, not the man that terrified her.

As much as she hated life sometimes, she did not want to die!

Her voice was humiliatingly shaky, "How in the world did you know I was in here?"

"Have you been here all night?" His smooth, deep voice vibrated inside her, making her relax into him a bit more in relief. No one else had that voice.

"Well, I-I couldn't ... I wasn't really ... I though it might be where I would have a better chance, just in case. He was on every screen in the place, you know."

His hot breath tickled her neck as his hands finally came to rest on her hips very lightly, "I thought to check on you but you were not in your flat. I fed your cat while I was there since it was obvious you had not been back."

That just made her cling to him all the more, closing her eyes and burrowing her face into his coat, "Is he really alive, Sherlock?"

"Your cat? He should be. Was when I left." He was trying to make a joke, a kind sort of thing to do, unusual.

Molly swallowed, breathing a laugh to humor him, "No. Pretty sure I was thinking of the man that took over the telly."

His hands traveled to rest on her shoulders, "I don't know yet."

"Is-" She cut herself off before she could start to panic, "Thank you."

"For what?" More gently than she would have expected him capable, he began to pull her arms from around his neck.

She let him untangle her, not having it in her to do it herself, "For feeding Toby."

He nodded, staring at her, deducing every detail, his fingers brushing her loose hair out of her face, "It's alright, Molly. Whether he is back or not, I will put an end to this. It will be fine, so don't hide in the dark, understand?" He could see the dark circles of a sleepless night, the wear of fear, the relief of seeing him, and probably how close she was to crying, maybe more.

Molly nodded, letting him walk her to the lockers for her things and letting him walk her outside. The fresh air would normally have felt nice after long hours stuck in the stale and dead chemical air. Her eyes went quickly to every rooftop, studying them, calculating any advantage points he might have picked out. Sherlock's hand caught her elbow as he guided her down the street to a cab. When he whispered, "The streets are clear, don't worry" she was not shocked. She had spotted Billy, the boy that came with John and Mary when she tested the samples, standing casually against the side of the nearest building. A new member in the network, she supposed, because she saw another familiar invisible person on the other side of the street.

Sherlock had it in hand. He always had everything in hand, most of the time. It made her feel safe again, the way having him by her side always did. He unnerved her and held her together all at once. It could make her believe things would work out, though a voice in the back of her head reminded her how the last time Sherlock had it all in hand worked out with him being dead for two years.

Sitting beside him in the cab, having him tolerate her occasionally touching him for security, made her feel safe. He was like a warm and fuzzy blanket to a child, though a blanket with sharp edges. She would have been excited, giddy maybe, under normal circumstances.

She could never have known at the time that someone would indeed be waiting for her at home, Toby in hand. There was no way for her to know in the moment that this was only the beginning of far darker things to come. She had a right to be frightened and if she had seen farther into the future, she might never have left her lab at all, with or without Sherlock at her side.

* * *

><p>AN:I said in the first chapter that every tiny thing about Tom made me believe he was not who we were being lead to believe. I wanted that to be true, wanted him to be another bad round in the Molly love trip. I desperately want him to be wicked and evil. The fact that he looked just like Sherlock seemed like a ploy to throw Sherlock's deductions off in the face of the blaring likeness to himself. Best ploy to off anyone is to throw something they cannot over look into their face.<p>

And, if Molly was hiding and afraid, I just have this feeling it would be Sherlock that would find her. Not because he's a genius, but because he knows her and cares about her. She is his soft spot. Like it has been said about her, she humanizes him.  
>Also, honestly, if Sherlock can fake death, why can't his flip side evil self do it? Thought provoking, haha. But there was obviously no body on that roof, you know that from Anderson's theory in the beginning! He thought they used the body for Sherlock, meaning it was gone. Soooo... where is it? They were intentionally SO vague!<p>


	4. If You Can't See

_Tomorrow Is Fading_

_If You Can't See_

_*BBC Sherlock_

_*Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, Tom, etc._

_AN: Correction Made to previous Chapters._

_Let Her Go by Passenger seems very fitting for this ship for Sherlock. He let her go and pushed her away and regrets it now but doesn't know how to reverse it. Here, he's lost quite a lot even if he'd rather not think about any of it. I think it fits really well, it's also used for this ship a lot, I believe. Others I listened to while writing were: First by Lucy Rose and The Scientist by Coldplay. Gravity by Sarah Bareilles and Make You Feel My Love by Adele (for Molly)._

* * *

><p>Perspective was quite a huge thing. Sherlock Holmes and his unshakable calm expression provided a lot of that to the previously cowering pathologist. Now that she was away from the lab, a real person beside her, she could secretly admit she had been quite foolish. There really would be no reason at all for Moriarty to come to her straight away. She would be the last of all, most probably. Sherlock would be his first visit so he should be the one to worry over, not herself. The last time she had not even warranted a death threat. While she knew she would rank high enough to get a death threat now, there would be others higher than she would sit on the list; John was a great example of people to worry over. She let fear get her all worked up into a tizzy for nothing. She still would not matter in the grand turn of events.<p>

Comforting presences like England's greatest mind made for a lot of inner confidence. The light soles of his shoes made little sound on the thin carpet of her building hallway as Sherlock strolled beside her in silence, shoulders and back ramrod straight with his arms clasped behind his back. The fact that he was walking her to her door was a surprise but a welcome one.

Instead of asking about the many things swirling in her head she found herself saying, "Where is John?"

His expression did not shift, he did not even look at her, "I advised him to stay with Mary. They are having a girl."

A smiled tugged on her lips in spite of it all, surprised by the declaration but also not shocked. "I see." He was secretly very protective no matter how he might deny it. Keeping John at a distance might well have been his way of protecting him as well as Mary. Sherlock knew, or expected Moriarty to come to him first so he wanted the father to be anywhere but there.

He seemed well recovered from being shot. She remembered about that in the cab. Molly reached up to play with her hair as she walked, trying to muster up the nerve to ask how exactly he was feeling. He looked like himself; good color, clear eyes, clear skin, all good signs. Not on drugs, also good. There was a smell of tobacco on his person but she had smelled that there many times when stress was getting to him.

There were tells even Sherlock had of stress. He was human just like everyone else, not a superhuman the way he let on. Enough time had been spent with him that she could read him a bit. The stiff way he was walking, for example, was a sign that he was thinking rather hard over something, off in his mind palace, leaving only enough of his surface brain alert to keep from walking into a wall. The set look to his smooth jaw, the hard line of his cupid's-bow lips, the single line between his brows, and the distant look in those sharp eyes always meant he was puzzling something.

She could sometimes puzzle him out too. Of course, he hated that, loathed it when she deduced him. Deducing was a thing only he was allowed to do to others each and every moment of every day, the reverse was a thing he could not stand. Any time she did so his eyes and deep toned voice turned baleful, hurling malign insults at her intelligence to discourage her so she rarely voiced any of them.

That did not mean she could not make them, and he well might have known she could do so. Hadn't he told her that she was one of the people in his life that saw him, one that he trusted? She knew more than she let on and he knew it but both of them kept silent on the issue, it was easier.

He might not let her in the way he did John, but she was still there, and she was proud of that. It seemed like such a long time spent watching him in silence, unable to get him to so much as speak to her more than to ask her to give him results. After some time though, he did speak to her, shared his irritation with the stupidity of the little insects around him. That was how it all began. He vented to her, let his opinions of others fall freer around her.

After John came around, he told her quite a bit about his flatmate because his world expanded beyond Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan, and Mrs. Hudson - Mycroft too.

She might have been the only person alive that knew John shot that killer cabby to keep Sherlock from taking that pill. Of course, she never let on, had no reason to. Admittedly, she might have done something similar in that situation if she had been John Watson. Sherlock never directly told her in so many words either, but she pieced it together.

Yes, the fact that he talked to her when he was annoyed and had no one else safe to tell made her quite proud even if it was nothing special. She was his pathologist, and maybe a little bit his therapist too when he needed it. She never really said much when he let down his walls, only listened, but it counted as so much to her. The great Sherlock Holmes needed her sometimes. Maybe that was what made her fall in love with him.

People said falling in love was easy but that was a blatant lie, or at least she believed so. Maybe it was just hard with him but she had seen quite a lot of people in various stages of love, being single and objective to their situations herself. Falling into like, attraction, lust, those were simple. Love was of a different bread all together.

Love was difficult. Love could be in spite of attraction or just a happy coincidence. It was deeper, consuming, going beyond all those things and burrowing under every defense any prison could ever have imagined walls for. It was what you did in spite of flaws and all those little habits another person might have that drove you insane. The depth of love was dangerous; it could drive anyone mad, even kill someone from the heartbreak of loss. Real love only ended when both sides sharing it were dead.

"Well," His voice was its usual purr of sensual depth that made her weak in the knees, "if you did not care to go home you should have said so, Molly."

It took her a moment to realize he had stopped walking and she whirled to see him standing at her door, waiting stoically, eyes fixed on her expectantly."Oh, no - right! I was just thinking. Guess I wasn't paying attention to where I was headed." A little pink dusted her cheeks from humiliation but he thankfully did not comment on it.

She went straight to the door, keys jangling in an instant before she threw the door open. The hinges needed to be oiled, squeaked a bit too much, but maybe that was good in some cases. She might just leave it as it was. Noisy doors might be good.

Her eyes hit on an odd shape fixed in her chair, a shape of nothing she had placed there before leaving. The rate her pulse spiked to would have killed her if it stayed so high for extended amounts of time and she scrambled frantically to turn on the light, not even knowing she was not breathing. Light flooded the room when her shaking hands clawed the switch the right way, flicking it back off for a split second in her haste and terror.

"Hey, Molls!" A cheery and distantly familiar voice greeted her from the chair.

Her mind was too frightened to process vision, only petrified that someone was in her home, someone that called her that name! Molly nearly jumped out of her skin, muscles twitching so tightly and violently she was sure she nearly had, medically sound in theory or not. Her heart could have beat new patterns into he ribs as well for how high her pulse rocketed. Her eyes fixed on the dark hair, scarf and coat still in place even if her flat was not cold enough to need them.

"And Sherlock is with you? Busy on cases then?" Tom grinned at them, stroking Toby's head in languid strokes, placed in her chair like he might as well have been a fixture of the house.

Tom never called her that name. He called her that only once in all the time they knew each other. A sharp glare made sure he never did it again. No one called her that except one person and her mind was stuck with his voice playing on repeat like a scratched disk.

It took her a moment to realize she was babbling in a language that did not exist as she started. It took her longer still to realize she had collided into Sherlock, her back pressing firmly to his chest in her bodies attempt to flee, though he was unmoved , it was a little insulting to know she was not strong enough to force him back a few steps even when she was afraid.

Her breath came out shakily as she set herself back into balance, eyes fixed on the man in her chair and the cat in his lap, "Tom! What the devil are you doing sitting in the dark? Are you trying to give me heart failure?"

His usually giddy laugh had a slight edge to it, "I was only waiting for you to get back. It was my day off and I remembered the board in Bart's said it was yours too. Figured I would stop by and wait till you got back from errands. Fell asleep."

"What you should have asked, Molly, is how he got in. Of course the answer is clear considering you were not terribly inventive about where you hid your spare key." Sherlock droned in his usual bored tone, still stood in the doorway.

Tom fixed his eyes on his rival as he shoved Toby of his lap to stand, "And how do you know she did not give me a key? You presume quite a bit, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock's eyes took a fast sweep of his body, judging him and coming back with the usual verdict, finding him lacking, "The same way I know you are a mathematician, well to do for the illegitimate son to an ill attentive mother."

Tom actually came very close to choking, stammering a minute before spitting out an indignant, "I beg your pardon!"

"Math problems are his hobby." Molly offered up, leaving off that it was the singular thing he was good at.

"It is clear you work with numbers by the pencil lead residue on your fingers. You could work with computers or calculators but you prefer the traditional method, your own mind seeming to you to be faster than a machine. There is a three on the joint of you pinky, a partial five on your thumb, and other smuggled numbers down the side of your hand. It is a habit because there were similar marks at the wedding and you also scribbled number problems on the napkin." Shoulders squared, back straight as an arrow, he plunged on, "You loathe older women. Any woman over forty is an irritant to you, even Mrs. Hudson. You clearly hate mother figures by your reactions to the mother of the ring boy. However, you loved your father even though he was not around the first few years of your life."

Molly nudged at the man at her side, fingers twining into her own coat, "I think you are probably good, Sherlock. He probably gets it now, how you could be sure about the key an all." While Tom annoyed her she did not suppose he deserved to be cut down to ribbons, he looked a little shaken to her. She knew nothing about his family but everything Sherlock was saying sounded like touchy issues that would be best left alone.

Bits like this were awkward and she had no idea what she should do. She felt a sort of need to protect them from each other, get them apart before anything bad could happen.

Tom raked his fingers through his hair slowly, "So anyway, it's my day off so I thought I might take you to see that movie you wanted to see...my treat."

"She can't." Sherlock announced in his usual no-nonsense, no room for argument, and still somehow bored voice. "I was only dropping her here a moment before she must accompany me to look at a corpse."

Tom scoffed, "I don't believe that was directed at you! If she can't come, it's fine, but you might let her answer for herself."

She could do little other that star in amazement at the meek creature she was shocked to find had a backbone enough to talk back to the consulting detective. That was a side she could not say she had seen before in this man. He was not one for challenging anyone normally. Both men seemed in unusually irritable moods even though she was bit unsure why. Tom's she could understand but she could not fathom why Sherlock seemed so much more quietly on edge than normal - oh, wait, what was she thinking -everyone related to Moriarty would be on edge. She could be an idiot at times!

"Sorry, it's work, you know. I'm not really off anymore, I'm afraid. It was terribly kind of you to think if me an all though! Really!" Molly's smile was tight.

Tom ducked his head in a nod, "Another time then." The air around him was nearly sparking as he walked past the taller man, shooting fiery arrows at him with his eyes as he left.

The door shut with a loud thump from Sherlock nudging it shut with his heel. He still stood with his arms crossed behind his back, face unerringly sage, posture still perfect. Even so, she could feel his irritation vibrating into her like a heatwave even though she had done nothing in particular that should irritate him. He never cared for his less attractive double though so it might have been residual.

"Honestly, Molly, you are a bit too lenient. You know it is foolish to let him pester you and attempt to tempt you back. You should not be scatterbrained enough to think he won't keep at it with you encouraging him."

A deep sigh left her lips as she trudged to her kitchen, secretly sulking at the way things always turned out. Sherlock was angry with her, Tom was also angry, and she had slept nearly none at all in the lab. This was not the mood to be lectured on how she should be handling her ex-fiancee by a man that pretended to ask a woman to marry him so he could get into a building and get shot. Greg told her a few things about that, things John had told him while they waited at the hospital.

It occurred to her to bring it up, rub something in his face. She wouldn't, of course, not that she did not have enough ammunition, just no desire to fire the gun. While he never seemed to care about shooting others with high powered artillery, she did not share his desire to speak out all her thoughts.  
>Molly opened her Frigidaire and pulled out the milk, wriggling it in his direction by way of asking if he cared for a cup without having to use words. He shook his head in the negative and they fell into a typical silence as she got down a glass and poured the milk. She downed half the glass in one gulp as he watched her like he expected her to do something. Her non-glamorous life was apparently of interest to him by the way he watched her.<p>

"Take it he wasn't here when you fed Toby?" She dropped herself into one of the kitchen chairs and motioned for him to take the one opposite her.

Sherlock did not move to accept, just stood his ground, "No. I would have noticed that. I wouldn't have feed him though, just the feline."

Molly could have laughed but she found her energy to do so lacking. "So is there really a body you need me to look at or did you just want him to leave?"

Shifting his weight to one foot, he smirked ever so lightly, just a feather touch to his lips, "Both, I suppose. He is bad for you, stifles you."

Molly nodded, not reacting even though she was surprised by such an odd declaration from him, of all people, "I know."

"The body might already have passed under you. A judge killed in his Chambers three weeks ago."

Her brows furrowed, "If it was that long ago, the body isn't likely to still be there. I can look but it might already have been moved."

"No matter, there is a new one they found last night."

Molly nodded, paying the table more attention than normal, "What about Moriarty?"

"Mycroft is tracking the network he used to send the signal. It might take a while to follow those leads, which I am not allowed to help with. Thankfully, people still get murdered so I won't be bored while I wait. Lestrade is frustrated with it and it looks like both were killed the same way." His icy eyes finally turned to her, hesitating before he spoke, "And this was the judge presiding over Moriarty's trial. Possible coincidence but it is worth looking at."

A lump formed thick in her throat and she had to speak around it, "Oh, I see. Makes sense. I'd be happy to look it over."

"The body was already moved. I was not able to see how it was at the scene."

She nodded again, feeling a bit ill. A dead judge was one thing and two was a totally different thing. Someone connected to Moriarty was a whole other thing and a much worse potential. The thought sent a chill of discomfort up her spine, cooling her blood in her veins. For as nice as he seemed in the beginning there surely was something utterly terrifying about him now. She would face a lion willingly before she met with that man again. A pain in her temple let her know just how tightly she was clenching her jaw and she relaxed it instantly.

Anyone that came that close to killing Sherlock was to be feared, or so she would say. Not many people could fool Sherlock, distract his deduction powers enough to prevent him from noticing they were a deranged killer. Jim was a bird of a different color, more than the consulting detective could boast of. She did not want him to be back. It was all so confusing and crazy and she did not want to deal with it on so little sleep but she rarely got what she wanted.

A sigh left her before she even knew it was coming but he ignored it. Finishing her drink she got up without a word and strolled to her room. He did not ask what she was doing, seeming to already know so he simply stood and watched the door close behind her. Once inside the temptation to just fall into bed was so great she actually ran her fingers over her pillow longingly. Oh, she wanted to sleep!

Instead she walked to her closet, tugged off her old clothing, pooling it all at her feet lazily and then shrugged on a new and fresh set. She would take a nice long bath once she got home. Rushing about on little sleep was no stranger to her. She had grown used to it in medical school and she got used to it again when she met Sherlock. It would be good for her to have her mind on something other than that repressive message playing on loop. In truth, she could use a day out with her consulting detective.

Solving cases with him the first time had been addictive, she understood why John enjoyed it. It was bloody interesting as well as fun. It gave her a rare chance to just watch him work in his element. It was candy coated paradise to a love sick little pathologist. She would never admit how much that day meant to her, how much more it made her adore him and hate him all at once.

There were days she had simply daydreamed about it, asking herself what would have happened if she had not been so stubborn. Would it have been close to a real date like she always hoped for? Something like how she wanted the failed coffee incident to go? She would never know now! It had been only his idea of a thanks anyway, nothing driven by deeper feelings but the mind could never help wondering.

Hair brushed, touch of makeup on, dressed in slacks and her favorite red floral shirt with the fringe at the bust, she snaked out of her room again. Her big brown eyes met his, not shocked that he had not moved from that spot. He might deduce something about it but she did not put any thought behind what she did just now to get dressed. It might confuse him more if she intentionally did not think. Her acting on impulse might tell him things too but she would let that be as it would.

He moved for the door and held it open for her, saving nothing about anything she had chosen to do. Molly gladly walked out her own door, bag in hand. She started to reach back to lock it but he beat her to it, flicking it before he shut the door. They began down her hallways once again, heading away from her bed.

His low voice kept an even tone as he spoke, eyes cast away as he recalled things from the past, "Thomas Milverton, latest. Drinker, overweight, always celebrated the good end to a case with a bottle and lamented bad ends the same. A self righteous, easily irritated, self important - as many judges tend to be- and a prideful man. He was average, liked by most, but was nothing to write home about; lead a boringly normal life. Still, he was not power hungry as some can get and he strove to be fair, so not a bad man.

He glanced at her now, no longer drawing up a memory, only information, "The first, Scott Martin was his polar opposite. Thin, young, health obsessive, skittish of people due to an attempt on his life seven years ago after a high profile case. No family save ageing parents. He did not resign because he held illusions of importance being a judge, believed it elevated him and made him better than everyone else. Socialized very little, making him a harder target but the killer somehow got close without raising his alarm. There was a panic button in his office and he was killed at his desk."

Molly frowned, crossing her arms over her chest, "If the first one was so paranoid, then who would he let close enough to kill him? Secretary, maybe?" She offered up but he shook his head.

"They checked into her, she was sick with the flue and has several family members to back her. The witnesses could be broken but she weighs ninety nine pounds and is short. She was in love with him anyway, no motive. His killer was taller and strong enough to hold him still from behind while he drove a knife up into the lungs. It was the silent death, popular in many circles of assassins - legal and illegal - including highly specialized teams in the various military groups around the world."

"How do you know they struggled though? Those are usually surprise attacks." She knew how it happened though she had never personally seen it done in the bodies that passed her table.

"The force of the stab wound and the victim had two broken fingers. It was swift but the judge was healthy and strong, died struggling to live."

Molly licked at her lower lip, thinking that over, "Well, we need to look at the body, get a better idea. Maybe the killer left more clues behind."

Sherlock directed her to a cab, hand tucked into the curve of her back, once they were outside. He said all he really intended to on the issue for the time being. It was not like he was that much of a talker, only if he was in the right mood. The moods where he talked a lot were few. She loved those moods but she saw them seldom. It was fine though because she was about to be close to him again, watching him work the way she was used to. It assured her things had returned to the way they needed to be.

The cab began to drive and he made another comment under his breath intended only for her, "Though, I believe there was a third murdered judge not yet linked to the case because it was deemed an accident."

Her eyes widened and her head whipped to look at him, "Another one? Who?"

"Robert Brett. Hit and run but it is strange considering two judges are dead and a week ago that man, a middle aged judge doing some under the table dealing is run down? Unlikely to be coincidence." He was whispering out of the corner of his lips.

Molly balled her hands together, "Why would ... why would he be going after these judges?"

"That is the right question, Molly."

It was a question they would have done well to understand sooner than later. Had they puzzled it out on time it might well have saved Molly. As it was, the simple but complex answers were the ones that could cause the most damage. No one thought to look at the simple sides of any answer so those things were left to fester and grow until they could not be controlled. Little problems added up to a much larger one.

It would be one of several things in a list Sherlock would later regret overlooking. The little details, they were always his downfall as well as his strength, but they had no way to know any of that yet. For now, they could go about their merry way and enjoy the bliss of the unknown pitfalls ahead.

* * *

><p>AN: I hope I kept everyone in character here, I did try! Hope I didn't disappoint!<p>

Anyway, I think Molly is the girl that everyone talks to because she is safe. Everyone feels safe with her so they don't worry about telling her secrets. They talk when they don't think she is listening, but she is the type to listen and watch everything around her. I think, in her own way, she misses nothing, she just doesn't always get why it's important or doesn't want to.  
>She is the wall flower that no one notices but everyone feels safe with. That was my reasoning for some of this chapter. Remember the Christmas party when she said how Sherlock had basically been complaining about things to her but she quickly cut herself off? I think Sherlock vents to her and doesn't even realize he does it. She is such a key part of him and he doesn't even yet know how deeply she is under his skin. Though, I think she is under all their skin in some way or another, the rock they don't realize they are standing on.<p> 


	5. Marching In Plain Sight

_Tomorrow Is Fading_

_Marching In Plain Sight_

_*BBC Sherlock_

_*Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, John Watson, Greg Lestrade, etc._

_AN: (**EDIT:** I realized the prologue was not attached so I just added that. I've had so many issues with this story! It refuses to post right. I posted chapters out of order and weird stuff. Anyway, fixed)_

_Don't think it needs M rating yet but I'm not sure._

_A little more of the Molly/Sherlock dynamic. My basic theme song for Sherlock and Molly is Best Laid Plans by James blunt. I also found an amazing Sherlolly video for the song by "elora" if anyone cares to look on youtube. It's their theme to me._

* * *

><p>Molly eyed the prone body on the cold and shiny metal table. She had seen the pictures in the paper of the judge but she had not personally attended any part of the trial. She intentionally stayed far away from all that. He seemed everything Sherlock had described; an obvious drinker even before she examined his liver, not at all healthy, his heart or liver would have killed him a few years down the road if the knife had not. What Sherlock had only hinted at was something she found in his wallet. Pictures simply fell out of the worn leather. He was a proud grandparent as well as adoptive grandparent. The careful way he saved all the pictures of his blood family as well as the ones he took on without relation were proof of his big heart behind a gruff face.<p>

A simple man, just as he said. These were only small bills in the wallet, the kind easy to give away to little ones for candy. The credit card was well used and the obvious place he kept his real money. The paper money was only there to be given away. No more notes for little hands to catch hold of now.

All those faces would have surely liked to have him those few more years of his life. The family this man left behind would mourn him bitterly and it made her heart sick to think of it. Robbing life from even one person could mean so many others suffered for it. Those children would never forget that this life had been stolen from their arms and it was hard to say what would come of that loss at this time.

The wound was deep, nasty and forceful, the hilt having left an impression in the skin. It was a serrated knife, leaving the flesh in a real mess. The blade was long too, something kin to a hunting knife. Titanium, possibly, she would have to run tests. If any piece broke off in the wound she might be able to match it with the knife once it was located.

"Have you found anything useful?" The deep rumble came from the doorway and she did not bother to look up.

"It's like you said, stabbed from behind with a lot of force. The knife was driven in at an angle, punctured the lung and was then twisted hard to the right. Prevents the victim from screaming or calling out while they die." Molly stepped back, stripping off her gloves and tossing them in a bin before she moved to speak with him.

When she came closer, he held up both hands and took a step back, "Last time I unsuspectingly let you close in a lab you nearly removed my jaw with the force of your beating. I might do well to keep my distance."

Her shoulders squared, chin rising, brown eyes narrowing, "You can if you like. You're good at keeping distance." She turned on her heels to head for a file, anger returning to simmer in her gut, "You deserved it then. I'm not sorry so don't expect me to apologize. I should have done it harder, in fact!"

That dark, nearly sinister laugh rolled low into the base served as her answer, making her more annoyed that he found it so amusing, "I did not expect you were sorry."

"Well, like always, you were right. Not sorry, I rather enjoyed it. You've had it coming a while." Her fingers leafed through the pages, barely reading them.

"Really? How long have I had it coming?" He was walking slowly up behind her, she could tell.

"I'm sure that corpse you beat with the riding crop would say you've had it coming since then." She kept her voice even and uninterested.

She remembered now why she had been so angry with him. He did deserve it and more! He deserved to be beaten to a bloody pulp for what he did. She was, in fact, still angry with him! He ran off without a word for two year, came back and played the hero. He was not the one that had been left to pick up the pieces of his mourning friends, nor the one to stay silent in the face of a good man blaming himself, nor even the one that had to face Anderson's incessant questions and hold up under the theories without letting anything slip. Those two years had been torture! She was, in fact, angry with him.

Not to say she did not understand, and she had tried not to be angry when he first came back, but she was. She had a right be be angry, to resent him for it. Not that she regretted anything she had done but she still had reason to be angry. After all that, he had the nerve to crawl into a den! He also had the nerve to crawl into that prissy little woman's bed.

Not that she held it against him because she didn't. She had taken up with a man as well, it was not as if they had ever so much as been on a date so there was nothing holding them to anything. She was the one that took up with a double out of fear and loneliness. Everything else she could hold against him though!

He never had apologized either, dodged it by bringing up the ring. Sniveling git that he was!

He laughed again and moved in at her side, skimming the file with her, "Did you find anything useful?"

"Maybe... there were fibers in the wound. They weren't from the clothes he was wearing, I checked already. Something the killer had got caught up with the knife." She waved at the door as she hurried to the lab and the microscope. The slide was already in place for him to look at since she had already had her turn.

Sherlock deserved to be slapped a hundred times more.

She thought it all, but she did not say it. She could say it but it would all die before it hit her lips anyway. After they worked a case together the first time she had done a grand job of building ice around her heart, done well to be angry with him. He slowly thawed her though, vaporized her stubborn intentions, slithered right back into the very place she managed to kick him out of once. He sat there, warm and cozy, back it the center of her heart. How he could destroy her so easily was a mystery, but he always did. No matter how she tried not to she always came back to him, came back to this place.

He had a way of making her forget she was angry with him somehow. It might take a while sometimes, but he always made her forget to be angry. She could not help falling back into the same cycle. It was their cycle. The beautiful and often cruel cycle of loving a man like him, that was the pull of gravity she had fallen into.

"Some sort of silk. Probably from a tie." He mused aloud as he fiddled with the settings of the scope. "Not helpful unless the killer still has it."

"I'm not finished examining him yet. I might find something else." Her eyes darted up at the sound of the doors and she frowned in confusion when she saw short sandy hair, the familiar black jacket, and that lopsided grin.

"I recall telling you to stay home, John." Sherlock drawled, not taking his eyes from the scope.

"Yeah, well, I just wanted to see how things were coming along." John rubbed his palms together slowly and nodded to her in greeting.

"Molly and I have it in hand, John. You should go home." Sherlock persisted but his fight was not really there.

"I'm sure you have it in hand." The slight wrinkles framing his mouth deepened when he smiled. "I still thought I'd come and see for myself. Mary thought I should run you a bit as a welcome back anyway." He was silent another beat before he asked hopefully, "Found any leads then?"

"Not really. Still working on that. Molly was just about to get back to work and find me something worth looking at." He glanced up and pointed at her, "Have you sent away for the evidence in the other deaths yet?"

"Of course. Already did since I knew you'd want to see." She pointed toward a table piled with envelopes, "First judge's things are there."

"You should have told me that to begin with." Sherlock muttered as he darted for the items and began to pick it all apart.

It really was back to normal now. John was standing off to one side, watching everything and making comments while Sherlock sifted excitedly through every tiny piece, and she stayed quiet while she worked. He handed her things while she was there, not noticing when she left to finish with the body, and not noticing when she returned.

She set up the scope in silence as she examined the tiny tip off the knife she had been sure would be in the body. A stab wound like that was very likely to have done damage to the blade. She had seen enough stabbings to have accurate hunches. Having a piece of the knife would only help confirm if it was the same one if another victim turned up. It would be evidence to link the deaths but she doubted it would be of more use than that. There wasn't enough to it yet.

It was average quality as far as blades went, common in any shop that sold blades. It was nothing he would be excited about. The slide he had made while she was away was more interesting than the knife tip. It was more fibers collected from the wound of the other victim. That was strange unless the killer was simply sloppy or clumsy. Unless... She frowned in contemplation.

"It's to reduce the blood." She muttered to herself as she examined the cotton fibers, "Wraps something around his hand or the hilt to keep from getting too much blood on himself. Makes sense if he wants to walk out unnoticed."

"It would seem so." His voice spoken nearly into her ear as he leaned in behind her almost made her throw the slide.

"If he's using a cloth to reduce the blood, what does he do with it after?" She turned around to face him and pretend his being in her bubble did not bother her in the slightest.

"Dumps it in a bin before he leaves?" John offered, "Puts it in his pocket or maybe case?"

"Throwing it in the nearest dustbin would be foolish. He could not dispose of it that easily but he obviously would have to get rid of it later. It's a pattern though, part of his signature. Hates getting his hands dirty!" Sherlock tented his fingers under his chin, "Probably prefers distance kills. Sniper, possibly, but he has to kill them in close quarters in these cases for some reason."

She leaned her hip against the table and frowned, "Why? Surely they can't be hard to shoot. Why change his preference for distance, non messy kills? He obviously was trained for this but why would a sniper switch?"

"Yes, we need to find that key. Whatever the reason is, it might tell us who he is." He whirled and headed for the door, "I need to know every person that visited them in that office the last few months. Footage would be good. Lestrade should have that."

John was on his heels as the two fled, leaving her alone once again. It was comical, really, how Sherlock protested the doctor being around but he fell into old habits the instant a thought struck him. As much as he protested, he did want John around even if he tried to keep the other man away. Sherlock had some very strange ideas about how to protect other people, he always did. It was funny, they all tried to protect each other and just ended up running circles around each other, ruin everything the other person did, and all with good intentions.

She sighed and then chuckled to herself. Sherlock took her home just to bring her right back to her lab. He should really not have bothered at all if he just planned to take her back. A yawn dropped her jaw wide and she set her work aside. It was all back to normal, mostly. Still, the couch in the lounge was looking pretty good for a few minutes of a catnap. She should be rested up in fifteen minutes and be back to work before he came back. The hit and run evidence was not delivered yet so she could afford to rest a bit, just a bit. She was no use as sleepy as she was. It seemed like a good idea.

* * *

><p>The three men stood hunched over a monitor, heads nearly pressed together as they watched the footage breeze by, people buzzing around for the cameras to see. There was no one interesting, everyone was ordinary. They identified the most frequent visitors to the Judges, all the usual people like lawyers and stenographers and secretaries. It was absolutely ordinary, just the pests running about like ants. Save for-<p>

"Play that back." Sherlock ordered in his overly typical clipped voice.

Obediently the man at the desk took the footage back.

"What, what did you see?" Lestrade glanced up, crinkling his clean cut face to add wrinkles in that all too common look of confusion as he focused on the other two men beside him.

"This man," Sherlock traced the screen, circling the figure with his index finger, "has been to all three judge's chambers at various intervals of time, but he has never once let the camera catch his face. He knows exactly where each camera is and he shifts just enough that he is never fully captured. Not quite the behavior of an innocent man."

Well tailored suit, expensive but made to look a little older to avoid anyone noticing he had money. The suit also fit him in such a way as to hide and play down his figure. It was cut to make him look slight, smaller than he was. His true build was between skinny and beefy, average but toned. He was stronger than he looked, deceptive. Intentional to divert the eye, seem less likely to be a threat. He kept a pare of glasses plainly visible in his breast pocket, another diversion to make him look weaker and cause others to under estimate him. Dark hair, jelled back, which could indicate it was normally unruly.

That man was everywhere in the recordings, seemed to travel anywhere without notice but his face was always conveniently obscured by turning his head or ducking behind another person or object. If they took the footage back a bit farther they might see more of him but those had yet to be recalled. He was clearly a staple in the building.

Greg glared at the screen, running a hand through his short hair, "Ah, yeah, I see what you mean." He squinted at the screen, always having trouble with the closer aspects of pixelized images, "I'll see if anyone knows who that gent is, maybe the secretary. In a hall full of people, someone has to have seen his face."

"Sure," John nodded, a little excited, "he might hide from cameras but someone has to know who he is if he comes in a lot."

Sherlock straightened up, shoulders squared and chin level, "Don't be too sure of that. People don't use enough of their brain capacity to do more than keep from walking into walls on any given day, if that, rendering them relatively blind and useless."

People never saw anything, used less than half their pathetic brains. A man that would intentionally misdirect attention would be even less likely to be noticed. To them he was nothing more than a mildly familiar face to frequent the halls. If anyone did know him, undoubtedly they would staunchly insist he could not be linked to the killer-they would not even guess he**was **the killer. They would say classic lines about him being a nice, normal man, not anyone you'd notice. Cliche! Easy! Exactly what this man intended them to say, knew they would say.

Here was a man that was skilled with distracting the normal observer, skilled at blending into the wallpaper. He was a professional, knew what he was doing! He carried himself differently when no one was in the halls, walked straighter, taller, with a smoother gate. When no one watched him he transformed into a confident, calculating man totally unlike his awkward counterpart, his cover. This man could change himself depending on how he wanted others to see him. Dangerous! Interesting as hired killers went.

Now to find his connection to the bodies, find who hired him, and find Moriarty! This man smelled of that man, was the very sort he would love, would be perfect for that network of spiders.

While he had dismantled and cut every thread, vermin like those were hard to kill down to the last root. They could hide in the smallest and darkest of places, missing detection to spring up again later. They were small and insignificant until they began to spread those webs once more. Those tiny threads were so hard to find. If Moriarty was still alive he would be weaker but twice as cunning.

Sherlock dragged a breath through his nose as he walked, only just realizing he had walked out of control room to head to the crime scene of the first casualty, John following as silent as a shadow.

I O U! I'm going to burn you! Burn the heart right out of you! You're boring-you're on the side of the angels! Good luck with that!

His steps hitched slightly as that voice echoed in his ears. Boring. Moriarty hated boring things, hated ordinary. If it had all been part of the game, maybe the destruction of that Web had been the point. Out with the old! Any of the bugs rooted out by his nemesis were not worth keeping. The last remaining insects would be worthy. It was possible, possible that he just wanted to destroy it all so he could build it again, alleviate the ordinary. Building a new empire while watching the old one be destroyed - there was no logic to it...but that man never played games that were logical. All he cared about was being entertained.

How could it be? Was it too simple or was he making it complex? The simple answers... He always looked for the grand answers over the obvious. That bit of correction had stuck. Fundamentally, what was this about? A scheme to rig judges for a few cases? Unlikely, they could not very well control what judge took their place unless they simply knew what judge was on the docket to fill in but that would not be full proof. If that was it, it was someone on the inside with access to files like that.

It might not be about the judges themselves, just a demonstration to prove this killer could get to these men. If his usual method was range it might be nothing but a demonstration of other skills. If so, why run down the second victim? What was different in that case? Panic? Perhaps he knew something, had seen something and drawn the wrong connections to the wrong person. He, unlike the other two, dabbled in the criminal world. Killing him might have been necessary.

He was missing something vital! He was always missing something right under his noise, but what!

The two walked into the office of Scott Martin and Sherlock darted directly to the desk, squatting and running his hands along the edges - it had been dusted for prints so no matter - as he examined the panic button installed on the underside.

Without asking, he shot to his feet and shoved John and an officer out of the desk area, tilting his upper body one way and then the next as he circled the desk like a prowling panther. No one in the room drew his attention, they could all have been invisible at this point as his mind traveled, putting the room together as it would have been at the time of death. He could visualize it, the judge hunched over, the faceless killer, and the knife.

"He would have been seated...he stood up, possibly looking over papers with the killer." Sherlock slipped into spot the chair would have been, viewing said invisible pages while his partner only sent him a look.

"You could have just asked." John muttered under his breath, "Or said a polite and perfectly common 'pardon me.'"

Sherlock shifted and slowly nodded to himself, turning to walk back around the desk. "Yes, they were looking at something. The killer shifted behind, one arm around his neck while he plunged the knife in with the other. Martin reached for the button, desperate as he was falling, clinging to the desk; he reached for the button but our killer smashed the hilt of the knife into his fingers, crushing two."

"So it was someone he trusted enough to let get behind him, mistakenly." John nodded again slowly, uncrossing his arms as he stepped back into range.

Sherlock darted back out the door, seeing nothing useful, not a single fiber left behind. The killer was careful, cleaned up after himself. Meticulous. Experienced. Not his first time with close kills and not his first time cleaning up a scene. The kills were not to prove his skill, he did not need to prove them. Even though he slipped and nearly let the young judge get the the alert, he recovered instantly, forced the other man away. The shoe impression on the clavicle was proof that he controlled the judge quickly and then watched the life drain from him to be sure he missed nothing else.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade's frantic shout made both men's steps hiccup, each twirling the opposite way to look down the hall to the source. "Get down here now! He did it again!"

"Did what again?" John shouted back, but was cut off from asking more when the consulting detective darted away, forcing him to race to catch up.

"Another judge, John! He's already struck a new target!" Eyes alight, the coat billowing behind him, he raced away, only tossing the words over his shoulder.

"While we were here?" The angry edge of gravely frustration was in his voice as they chased the retreating figure of the DI and consulting detective.

No answer came as they raced through the halls, various uniformed officers racing in all directions, spreading out like a hopeful net that would catch nothing. The killer would be gone, long gone. He would have left well before the bodies were found. This was a taunt but not so drastic that it would risk capture, he was too careful for that.

John had to run harder to keep up with the much longer legs of Holmes. They skidded to a stop at the door, eyes sweeping the room. Pools of blood leaked from the throats of three prone figures. One judge, still in his robe; other two would be lawyers judging by their clothing. A blood soaked wig was partly under the body of the judge. They had been in a conference. The blood was congealed, bodies in advancing stages of rigor mortis, he could tell by the eyes of the second body.

Little officers and crime analysts mulled about the room, already cluttering it, but they were irrelevant. Lestrade was already gone, off searching for the killer or anything to lead to him, a witness maybe. Normally he might have forced everyone of the room save John, but he let them crawl about, ignoring them and looking through them.

They had been killed right after the first case of the morning and the other was done at night after the last case on the other side of the massive building. These three might not have even known about the death considering the other section was locked down to keep panic to a minimal. Security had been increased but not nearly enough. No one expected another hit so soon, not that increased security would have helped. The killer counted on no one expecting it, everyone expecting to have a few more weeks before the next hit if any more were to come.

The judge had been first, killed the same style as the others, lying face down. The two lawyers were different, throats slashed in a single, very fast and hard strike by a very sharp blade. The man was the second, a great deal of force used judging by the depth of the wound.

Sherlock stepped very carefully around him, letting John examine the first two by the door. The killer put himself between them and the door, the escape, working his way back. Despite the fact that there were three dead, there had been next to no struggle. There were a few files scarred, a standing globe toppled in the woman's attempt to run but nothing else. He used surprise and shock against them. They were stunned after the judge fell. The lawyer in his thirties did not have time to recover from shock before his throat was cut. Backed into the corner, the woman must have cried out but he overpowered her almost instantly.

His steps hitched when he circled to see her face fully, and swallowed hard. "John."

Knowing the tone meant nothing good, the doctor scrambled over, followed by one of the officers - Bradstreet- still in the room, both eager to understand what had him standing so ridged with his voice tight.

"Oh..." John wavered slightly, understanding sweeping his aghast expression.

"What is it, Mr. Holmes?" The young; recently promoted; newly engaged; son born to a family of police officers; asked with wide eyes fixed on the taller figure.

"She was the district attorney prosecuting Moriarty's trial." John muttered lowly, eyes fixed on her face. "This can't be a coincidence... First the judge, now the prosecutor..."

"It would make for quite a coincidence, wouldn't it?" Sherlock shifted his stance, linking his arms behind his back, "Time of death?"

"Oh, um..." John bent down, examining her as well. "Some time between... six and eight this morning. Approximately two to three hours ago."

"The killer cleaned up, walked out the front door and left long ago. We won't find him today." Sherlock tapped his fingers to his palm absently.

Broad shoulders hunching, toned muscles tightening under the uniform, Bradstreet balked, "He killed Milverton last night, came back this morning without being noticed, and killed them too?" He gaped at the two in shock, "How could no one notice? He couldn't have cleaned up so well no one would see blood."

"No, that's incorrect. Everyone saw him but no one noticed him. He could have walked right past you, totally unnoticed as you searched for a killer."

"How? How could he do this and not be noticed?" His strong brow furrowed in deep lines soon to be worn in before their time.

Sherlock turned a cold eye to the young man, "Because they know him as harmless and would never even dream of him being a killer. If he walked down the hall with blood on his person, anyone seeing would assume he injured himself, not that he murdered three people. He exhibits nothing threatening, nothing associated with an assassin. He might be friendly, even likable."

Only Sherlock noticed the way John tensed, eyes drifting from the body a moment before his focus returned and he stood up, brushing at invisible dirt on his knee. "Then how do we find the invisible man?"

Sherlock did not answer, striding again around the room, picking at things in silence as he searched. The eventuality that he would miss a clue increased with added victims. He cleaned up after his crimes but no matter how careful, he would miss-

"Shoe print in the blood, doesn't belong to these three. Dress shoe, size eleven." He pointed toward the judge and a technician and then swung toward the woman, "Better still, she scratched him. He cut he nails deep, into the quick on that hand but he might have missed some. Bag her hands!"

That was the way to catch an invisible man! Evidence, his mistakes! Everyone made mistakes, no one could catch everything. Two people involved in the trial down. The others could have been nothing more than meaningless red herring. If it was nothing but a few decoy deaths, it was a foolish and useless attempt. Something was strange about it though. There was anger involved somewhere, a possible personal grudge against one of them. There was even more brutality involved in that scene than in the others.

Sherlock almost did not notice John following him out of the room again. His mind was already consumed. Dead or alive, this killer was operating for Moriarty. As of yet, there was no way to know which it was. A fanatic follower gone rogue or the last of Moriarty's supporters following his direction. They could hope for the former, he supposed.

Granted, he could not deny the thrill stirring inside him at the prospect that the man was still alive. Part of him was frightened by it but another part of him begged it to be true. Life would be boring without a... good, old fashion villain to play these games with. That part of him should be ashamed at it's thrill. Having that man around was dangerous to everyone around him, that unstable man could destroy them this time. He could not let it happen.

Sitting in a cab beside John, eyes fixed out the window, he chewed the inside if his cheek. He was not thinking quite clearly yet. The past case had slowed him, cluttered his mind and reduced his efficiency. He would need to remedy that if he hoped to sort this out. He needed to delete some things and get himself back on the proper track. He would need all the space he could get, all the focus to be able to deal with this case.

"So, it's Moriarty? For sure?" John ventured quietly.

Before he even thought over his words, they spilled free, "Of course it's Moriarty."

* * *

><p>AN:I think people tell Molly everything and nothing all at once. She is both the first to know and the last. People disregard her because she is shy and quiet and she gets left in the shadows a lot.<p>

I also love who Molly is! She is so gentle but she has an edge to her she rarely uses. I don't think she holds back that edge because she is weak or shy, I think she does it out of kindness. She is as clever as Sherlock in some ways and I'm pretty sure she could wound people just as easily as he can but she chooses not to. The angrier she gets though, the more her edge shows.

Did you catch who Bradstreet is? Not sure if anyone remembers him or not. I had to toss him in.

Oh, and Sherlock's perspective is a little hard to write, I know I didn't quite nail him this time but I will try harder. Hope it was not confusing! I really will do better, or try to! Sorry it was sucky this time!


	6. Shadows and Ghosts

_Tomorrow Is Fading_

_Shadows and Ghosts_

_*BBC Sherlock_

_*Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, John Watson, Tom, etc._

_AN: A bit more of Molly's pov and thinking over all the traumatic bits of the past with her relationships._  
><em>There is a little of Sherlock and Molly having a fight while poor John just tries to keep the peace. I love it when they fight, it's so cute when they are angry!<em>  
><em>Song for this is Counting Bodies Like Sheep by a Perfect Circle.<em>

* * *

><p>If she did not measure the amount correctly Sherlock would be very displeased! Of course, she could not damage evidence in general, so careful calculation was a given. Her hands were unusually shaky today though. The lack of sleep might have been getting to her. If Molly got any part of the test wrong, the department, her boss, and Sherlock would all be falling on her head. It was too important to the case to make even the smallest error!<p>

The day had been entirely too stressful for it still being so early. It had not been long at all since Sherlock and John left her to do her work. Even so, she knew she should have quite a bit more done than she did. Everything was progressing too slowly!

It seemed nothing at all had gone right for her. She could not even remember all her tests of the day but it seemed to her they had all been to difficult and complicated. Her memory was so hazy and fragmented. It was obvious she needed more sleep!

Ah well, she could sleep when she was dead, as the saying went. At the rate Sherlock tended to push her, that might well be true and arrive sooner than later. Molly was unsure what had her so frustrated other than being tired but she felt on pins and needless, unable to relax. There was something she was forgetting and it felt important. Sherlock was going to be angry with her over whatever it was, she just knew it!

Her body stiffened when the lab doors swished open. He was here! Whatever it was that she had forgotten to do in her rush was about to come to light, he would be pointing it out to her in some very unhappy tones. She really did not want to deal with that when she was tired, did not feel like fighting with Sherlock today!

Smooth hands slid up her arms to rest tenderly at her shoulders, "Hello, Molls!"  
>Jim.<br>Her entire body turned to ice; she tried to move but nothing would budge, nothing! She could not even breathe, the air stuck in her lungs.

"Did you miss me, Molls? I've missed you!" His soft, nasal, aloof voice purred into her ear as he rested his chin in the crock of her neck, leaning heavily on her. "It's been a while, hasn't it?

She did not answer, could not answer, her throat was closed up tightly, body shaking already.

"I've thought a lot about or breakup since we last spoke." He dragged out every word, keeping them all light, "I don't really care for being dumped, especially not for another man... Even worse, you helped him stay in my way. He would have died if you hadn't come around and gotten involved, and I hate it when people mess up my plans. The story was perfect the way I had it, Molls! I wrote the perfect ending!" His voice had been tensing but it relaxed again, turning almost to a whine, "Why did you do that? Hmm?"

"Please!" She had found her voice but her mouth seemed only able to form that single word, body weakly twitching in his hold, not nearly enough to be useful even though every single bit of strength she had was going into it; she could hardly move no matter how hard she tried!

Everything in her mind was screaming for her to run, to fight, or to at least scream, but she couldn't. Her mouth hung open, throat closed and silent, arms twitching at her sides uselessly. Both his arms came up around her chest in a strange form of hug and she could not make herself move for all the world. She was desperate to move but nothing happened even as hard as she was focused on it.

At the very least she wanted to beg him to let her go, beg for her life, anything at all would have been useful, but nothing came!

A strangled sound came from her throat, her lips feeling dry and disconnected but she struggled for words. She wanted to tell him to get off, to go away and never come back, but the best she managed was several pitiful "no" sounding things.

As if in response, angered possibly, he began to shake her back and forth, "Molly, what's wrong, Molly? Are you listening?" He repeated her name again and again until it was maddening. It spurred her comatose mind and she finally began to flail and kick with her awkward and slow motion, but it was better than nothing.

"Molly!" That was John's voice, they had come back! She was saved!

Her eyes flew open to find the faces of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes inches from hers, much closer than her terrified mind was even close to prepared for. Her body was ready for a fight and she lashed out at them both to get them out of the all too close proximity.

John managed to dodge her, but Sherlock, crouched beside the couch as he was, did not quite evade the heel of her hand connecting with his jaw. A snarl was the extent of his response as he jolted to his feet and stepped away, rubbing at the abused side of his face as Molly scrambled to her feet, rage still pumping in her blood even though she had no place to direct it.

"This best not be turning into a habit, Molly!" Sherlock's voice was clipped and more than slightly annoyed, "My jaw might not last much longer at this rate."

"What were you doing shaking me? I'm not a rag doll!" She snipped back.

"I was attempting to be helpful, for your information, Ms. Hooper!" He ground out, "You were mewling and twitching in your sleep like a possessed trout!"

"I did no such thing! I never fell asleep, I was only resting a moment while I waited on evidence!" He was angry with her and that only spurred her on, kicking up all her defenses.

"Alright," John cut in quickly, "either way, you seemed upset and so we were assess the situation. It might have been better handled on our part, so we are sorry, Molly. Still, clearly all is well, so no harm done." He was trying to speedily repair the tiff, as always.

"When my jaw is bruised tomorrow from being sucker punched, I think I will have reason to disagree, John." Sherlock squared his shoulders, eyes narrowed as he dropped his hand to his side.

"You deserved it for getting so close when I did not see you coming! What do you expect?" She was feeling attacked, still hyper from the dream about- She withered slightly in place as she realized the particulars. She had been asleep, having a nightmare and she probably had been making a racket, "I mean..." Her eyes focused on the ground, a chill running up her spine, "I was startled. I'm sorry for striking you."

"There now, we've all apologized," John clasped his hands in front of him, smiling wide and fake, "no harm done. Everything is fine."

"I have nothing to apologize for, John, and I'll not be doing so." Sherlock, ever one to correct, jumped in, "She is the only one in the wrong."

Molly swallowed, trying to calm her own nerves, "I just said I was sorry about hitting you."

The muscles in Sherlock's jaw flexed first, traveling to his neck muscles before he finally uttered a very clipped, "Apology accepted." His eyes turned sharper, chin lifting so he could look down his nose at her the way he tended to do when he was especially put out, "What were you doing anyway? You were supposed to be working."

Molly's fight had all drained out of her, leaving her more tired than before, "I just wanted to rest a bit, take a few minutes to close my eyes, that's all."

The way he looked at her, eyes shifting as he deduced her, let her know he would have it all figured up in a second. He would make some sort of cutting comment about her weakness and maybe about how she would not be having dreams about Moriarty if she had been doing as she had been told.

The chance was averted by John, "Well, we better be getting busy." His grey eyes fixing on her, the three lines across his forehead deepening and stretching as he frowned and focused on her, "There are three new bodies to add to the count now, Molly, and they should be here shortly."

The last of the residue clouding her mind lifted and she cocked her head in question, "Three new? Who's dead then?"

"Another judge and two lawyers that he had been in conference with him." Sherlock's calm, business voice crashed against her now, all of them back to normal as if none of it ever happened.

"What, three at once?" Molly frowned, flexing her fingers around the pockets of her white coat, "All the same killer?"

"It appears so, but he changed his dynamic slightly. The judge is consistent but he slit the throats of the other two." Sherlock linked his hands behind his back and walked from the room, heading for cold storage with the obvious expectation that the other two would simply follow him.

They followed.

Once back in her morgue she saw a familiar long black bag sitting atop a slab. The door banged open to her left as two men wheeled a second gurney with the same shape upon it, wordlessly leaving it to sit beside the other. She licked at her lower lip as she stared at the two items waiting for her.

Sherlock did not wait for the last to be brought in, he simply slipped on gloves and unzipped the nearest bag, "This one is the one of most interest, Molly. She was the likely target this time, not the judge."

Her feet dragged her over beside him as she looked down at a middle aged woman, probably very pretty in life, face now twisted in death, blood covering one side of her face, "Why was she the target? He has been killing judges up to now."

"Because, this woman was the prosecutor at Moriarty's trial. The judge and second attorney were likely just collateral damage poorly thrown in to confuse us."

Molly's brows twitched at the mention of that name, her fingers locking together in front of her. "This was the woman?"

"They all could have been nothing but diversions, none mattering but the judge and this lawyer." Sherlock commented offhandedly, voice cold to his own words, denouncing the lost lives.

Molly slowly moved to the second bag, unzipping it to find the face of a young male, younger than John, but similar in appearance, "Why attack them as a group of three if only one mattered? He surely could have picked a better time when it would be easier for him. Cutting this artery," her gloved fingers touched lightly at the deep slit that could have removed the head with just a bit more force, "would have gotten blood everywhere. He hates messes, so why do it this way?"

"Over compensation the throw us off his scent?" John stepped up, peering over her shoulder, not getting too close, but close enough to see.

"Perhaps." Sherlock muttered, also venturing closer to the second body, "But this wound nearly decapitated this one. He used more force than necessary to kill the three of them. Something set him off about these three. These killings held anger behind them. Something was different..."

Molly's eyes lifted to meet the steel ones, "What was different? Why did he snap?"

"That is what I hope you will be able to give me answer to." Sherlock's eyes remained on her a moment before he turned again, pointing back to the woman, "She was last to die. She watched the other two die and she had a few seconds more to recover from shock. Her last act was to fight him, to scratch him, possibly even bite him, anything she might have been able to in her struggle." He slid the zipper down farther until her bagged hand was revealed, "He cut her nails to get rid of the evidence but there could still be traces of him somewhere, a little tissue that he missed."

Her eyes widened, interest peaked as she examined the hand through the bag, seeing the crude cut nails, "I might be able to find something. He was careful, but it is very hard to catch every trace. I will check her mouth too, in case she bit him as you suggest."

Sherlock nodded, strolling out the door as the last body arrived, motioning for John to follow him out. In the past she might have asked where he was off to but she had been around him long enough to know he had something in mind he intended to check on. Explaining things to her had never been high on his list before he left the room.

She had her work cut out for her and it was promising to be a long day and long night. There would be so much evidence to collect and she would have to take special care to get everything right. He left her with the bodies, not hovering over her the way he did with other pathologists. He trusted her work.

Molly would not let him down when she was most needed. This case was linked to- this case was too important for her to miss even the smallest detail. She had to get this right, she had to find something! Everyone, even the most careful criminal left evidence. What she had to do was find it, find the unlikely, think the way Sherlock did.

* * *

><p>Her bloodshot brown eyes were burning after so many hours, feet aching horribly from standing over the corpses and evidence so long without a break. Examining the woman had been first, gathering the tiniest bits of tissue, missing nothing because she knew she would never be likely to have the chance to gather more.<p>

This woman's last breath was dedicated to giving her that evidence. Having watched two others die, she had to have known she had no chance and she did the only thing she could do; she gave the pathologist a way to catch the killer. She could not let that last act be for nothing. She owned the woman, Amanda Harris that much.

Focusing so desperately on that had been able to drive away the residue of the dream long enough for her to work. Once every single piece of evidence had been taken though, everything collected, then she heard him breathing behind her each time the air kicked on. She swallowed hard as she worked on the last body, examining the judge.

She gleaned quite a bit from that body too, not only tissue samples the killer missed. There were also a few hairs and fibers she was almost positive did not belong to the woman. After she ran tests on the hairs, possibly animal hairs or hairs and fibers from the killer's coat, she would have quite a bit more to go one.

It had been a battle with her own mind as she examined the sandy haired lawyer. His face kept shifting to John's and it was a continuous reminder that it could eventually turn true if they could not catch the killer. The closer she looked at the man, the more he resembled John after the blood was cleaned from his face. If she could not find the evidence to stop this killer, eventually he would be finished with the people involved in the court case.

Her breath came out in a quiet sob and she tucked away her instrument on the table, stepping away from the judge to calm herself. She could not afford to fall apart just yet, there was too much left to do. The tiredness was getting to her though and she might end up doing more harm than good with the final victim. She held it together for the other two but she was nearing her end.

Stripping off her gloves, she hugged her arms and curled to the floor. Shaking her head back and forth, she tried to gain back her head. Sherlock needed her to do this and she had to. If she took just a few minutes she might be able to go on. A spot of coffee might perk her up and steady her nerves. Yes, she needed some coffee.

Stumbling from the room, she headed for the pot and a cup, intent on focusing her attention on one thing at a time. That was how she would get through the rest of the day, she would take one step at a time and focus only on those things. She had to cope with this somehow and that seemed the best way to do it.

Her heart jolted when a man from the third floor passed ahead of her. He had dark, short hair and it made her body flatten her against the wall even though she knew it was not the same man. Ever face, every voice turned into his no matter how much she rationalized it away. He clung onto every wall, was the flicker in each light, and the shadow in each corner. Her own mind was her enemy when it came to things like that.

Jim Moriarty was the most terrifying man she knew of. Sherlock told her everything about him the night he asked for her help, told her about the visit to the flat and the threats. He told her everything that man had done to ruin him. The things Jim Moriarty could do to others was the most horrific thing she had ever considered one human being doing to others.

The destruction he was responsible for was so immense and her mind had a hard time dealing with the information. Jim from IT had been so very different from the man she now understood him to be. The tiny, terrifying flare in his eyes the night she insisted they break it off had been as close to his wrath as she had personally been, but that flash was enough to make her believe it all. He had been angry with her that night, she saw the smoldering anger and hear the changed edge to his voice even though he did not explode at her.

Her hands gripped the coffee pot for dear life, trying to keep the shaking down enough to get herself that much needed cup.

Jim had always been a strange man, a different breed, intense in everything he did but quietly reserved. In the beginning, when she met him, she thought he was shy. He smiled easily and made her laugh with his sharp wit. Being around him had been enjoyable. She felt a bit sorry for him because he seemed lonely to her then so she had not fought his offer to take her out a few weeks after they met.

It was easy to like Jim, so easy to tell him everything and just chat.

If only she had looked a bit more deeply into him! Her eyes fluttered closed when the guilt flashed inside her chest painfully. Everything she had done had made it worse. She lead him right to Sherlock, told him all about the man. She could not believe she had done such a thing! It should have been obvious, something should have given her a sign of the truth but she was so wrapped up in other things that she never really looked.

The guilt had always been suffocating but it was so much worse now. How much worse had she really made all of it? What had she handed him that would destroy Sherlock, John, and Greg? How much worse had she made her own future death, for that matter? All that intensity turned against her, that terrified her!

He had always been somewhat intimate, quick to touch her, though never anything inappropriate. It had never crossed lines so quickly that she would be frightened or worried, he never let it feel threatening. So good at keeping balance, he was, never letting her feel intimidated by it while still getting his way. He had been so good at it the she had let him kiss her, let him pull her in at his side while they reclined on the sofa watching a movie.

It was funny now to think that she had lain against him, tucked between the cushions and the body of a killer, head resting on his shoulder while he draped his arm around her. She fell asleep there and felt perfectly safe to do so. Never once had she feared him. He woke her up with feather soft kisses, gentle and sweet, whispering her name. Jim from IT had been safe to her. It was so impossible to think it now.

The feeling now was anything but safe. It was so terrifying now that she could not always take full breaths. Just thinking for those same hands and arms wrapped around her, that same voice speaking into her ear before he killed her slowly the way she guessed he might want to... It was ill advised to think too long on that.

She wished so much that it had not ended that way! Wished she had done things differently! It was too late to wish though.

Back when the trail was underway, she stayed well away from the courtroom, terrified of the whole affair. She had been so sure that Jim would have her called as a witness, a character witness, and that she would be forced to speak about her time with him. Talking about those times and facing him down had been her greatest fear but no one had called her. She had barely even been questioned by Lestrade over it.

She had not warranted a summons any more than she had a death threat back then. The state had not wanted her any more than the defense had. She was glad of that then.

The backs of fingers touched feather light against her face and Molly shrieked, the mug falling from her grasp as she whirled, cup and contents shattering and splashing at her feet. Her head was already spinning, heart pounding horribly in her chest even as she recognized the unruly curls, the scarf, and the coat.

Molly was shaking and whimpering softly, hands held to her heart as Tom folded her into his arms quickly. Under other circumstances she would not have allowed her ex-fiance to hold her but she would overlook it since he was mainly the only thing keeping her upright while her knees were threatening to buckle. Her fingers latched onto his coat and she hung on for her life's sanity.

"I'm _so_ sorry, Molly! I didn't mean to frighten you so badly! I'm so sorry, darling..." He whispered into her hair, kissing her temple affectionately.

"It's-it's alright, I just thought I was alone." Her voice was no better than her body, shaking like a leaf, "You only startled me."

It did not occur to her to ask why he had come at that moment. She had no particular reason to wonder over it because he had a habit of popping in at her work in hopes of seeing her. He did that much while they were dating. She banned him from coming into the lab section though right after she found one of his curly hairs on the body she was working on just after they began dating.

She had been hyper aware of how close he came to the lab after that to be sure she did not contaminate evidence by accident because of his visit ever again. His visits had been slapped with so many rules after that particular bout of heart failure at having accidentally trailed something like that into her work. She was always so careful about contaminating her cases but she had slipped up that day somehow even though she was unsure how.

It had never happened again because she never let him past certain areas ever again. This was the closest he had come to her lab since. He had received quite the scolding for it as well, the same as she had after she was forced to report the mistake. She and Tom had each been given a tongue lashing. Nothing like that had ever happened again.

He was still closer to her lab than he had been in quite a while. She would not consider that fact until much later though. For now she was just happy to have a safe human being to cling to when she was terrified of a looming ghost.

* * *

><p>AN: You know those dreams where your desperate to get away but you can't move or you're trying to scream so hard and nothing comes out? You wake up punching at something or wake up when you finally are able to make noise. I hate those dreams, they are horrible! That was what I was gone for here, giving her fear an outlet.<p>

I think she would blame herself for a lot of what happened, secretly.

Tom is as much a shadow over her as Jim but she doesn't quite see it yet. Tom is the shadow and Moriarty is the ghost.

As always, if I made errors, they are mine because I don't have a beta. I try to keep it clean but I miss things.


	7. You Better Run from Me

_Tomorrow Is Fading_

_You Better Run from Me_

_*BBC Sherlock_

_*Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, Tom, John Watson, Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, etc._

_AN: Gun by Chvrches_

* * *

><p>The chair in the office was too firm, cushions like sitting on a rock. If he could have switched out the chairs he surely would have. It was a little beyond him how anyone worked in the little room with dull walls, hard chairs, short desks, and narrow doors. It could make anyone develop a case of claustrophobia. It was no wonder people in this occupation burned out so often. Everything was gray and dull.<p>

He rocked the chair back, keeping it off balance to keep himself awake and to prevent madness from setting in. The room was insufferable but the people in and out were worse. The urge to kill them grew with every passing moment. The only way to prevent the act itself was to fantasize in vivid detail about just how he might do so later. Fortunately no one was in and no one would be until morning.

His tongue flicked out, sticking slightly as he moistened his dry lips. It was too warm in the room and often too cold outside it, never a happy medium between the two. So typical!

"Oh, she's spooked alright!" Tom pressed the phone to his ear with one hand while eyeing the fingertips of the other. He liked to keep his nails uniform in length, loathed them being even slightly uneven. "I seriously considered the potential that I had given her heart failure when I arrived unannounced."

The low rumble on the other end was confirmation of amusement so Tom continued, "I've a few more things planned for her later, unless you think it's been enough. We have had a bit of fun."

"_Oh, we could have a bit more. I believe we owe her a few more good turns_." The phone buzzed only slightly when that laugh was translated into waves.

"Agreed." Tom let a jaw cracking yawn free, "Besides, games break up the monotony. She has always been a fun toy. I can't wait till we finally get to break her."

"_Don't be so impatient, Sebastian_." The other man chided, "_The wait is always worth it. Waiting makes the end sweeter, watching them squirm as much as possible until the end, squeezing them until they beg for mercy is a little erotic._"

The man had a way of describing things that made others interested in seeing things his way. Ever good with words, that one. He could sell his points to his listeners expertly, like the door-to-door vacuum salesmen in the long, long past days.

Tom could not suppress the grin that split his lips, "But you've always been a masochist as much as a sadist."

"_Is there something wrong with that? Isn't that what makes it perfect, makes everything taste better in the end?_" The sigh hissed over the line, "_You don't want to rush a tasty morsel like revenge. This isn't just a game to play with her, no, not just a beautiful lie, it is better!_"

"Much better." Tom agreed, his eyes nearly changing colors and they darkened, "But I'm not sure I can hold off as long as you can."

"_You want your cake and you want to eat it too, don't you? The only way to enjoy the delicious dessert is to finish the meal! You want Sherlock roasted over the flames and grilled slowly until the fat is dripping off him... till he's tenderized. Dessert is the way to get to the main course as the main course is to get to dessert_."

Tom huffed low in his chest, "I suppose, but I'm tempted to turn up his heat. As you say, they each owe us. I tire of waiting for it."

"_You'll be glad you savored it later. You waited this long, what's a little more? When we make her dance and twist the noose tighter, you'll enjoy watching her die and love watching him in the flames as he burns alive_."

"Let's light them up!" Tom nearly giggled at the pictures drawn in his mind.

"_Soon, Sebastian. Savor it!_" The line cut out, signaling the end of the call.

He could have said a proper goodbye, like normal people did. What was ever normal about any of them though? Normal was an illusion and normal was also dull. Tom preferred things as they were!

There was a good portion of waiting ahead of him and he was staring down the barrel of it, waiting until he could move. The task at hand was tedious for the waiting. Still, he was more patient than he let on, simply liking to be reminded by the skillful liesmith.

This new target would be a bit boring and that was what actually annoyed him. His partner would be having more fun on his end than he was. Granted, Tom had his fun, enjoyed every second of the game, which was why he was reluctant to be moved from it.

Though, after the last encounter, it was best he steer away from Holmes. If dearest Molly had not stepped in when she had he shuddered to think what might have been deduced next. It had all been dropping too close to home as it had been. Somehow, the Sherlock-persona hid slipped enough that Sebastian had been bleeding into his roll of "Tom." He could not afford to be given away that easily to the consulting detective when there was so much more left to do! Best stay away from Holmes, indeed.

* * *

><p>Lestrade crossed one leg over the other, slapping his hands on the arms of the chair, leaning back in Sherlock's chair as he stared at the two men. John was sat in his usual place, fingers drumming his knee as he stared pointedly at the skull on the mantle. Sherlock was busy pacing in front of his wall of pictures that meant little to anyone but him. The crime scene photos had pins stuck into them but only the consulting detective would know what they were about. None of them seemed in a pleasant mood but that was just slightly understandable under the circumstances.<p>

John was dressed in his usual attire, as was the Inspector, but Sherlock was in his sleepwear and his usual robe. Comfort apparently needed for these deductions. Interestingly, he looked no less professional, managing to make anything he did look normal and seem ready for the office. This was the man that entered the palace in nothing but a sheet, totally unfazed.

"So," Greg tossed to word out like a declaration, "you're sure about this? It's not just some old follower of his?" He threw his feet back to being flat on the floor, leaning his elbows on his knees, "I mean, you did see him shoot himself, yeah?"

"Yes..." Sherlock scowled at the wall, pressing his steepled finger tips under his chin, "I saw it, but that does not mean everything."

"Well, it means quite a bit to me, Sherlock! Shooting yourself in the head is pretty damn permanent, so my years in crime would suggest!" Lestrade arched his brows, waiting for something a bit better to come forth.

"Something was off from the beginning, I just could not place it." The low voice muttered, still not bothering to look at the other two.

"Off?" John's eyes fluttered closed, "What do you mean off?" He shook his head and waved a dismissive hand, "Never mind that. If he's alive, what the devil is he up to this time? How are we supposed to stop him, that's what I'd like to know!"

"Moriarty is picking his way through the people involved in the trial." The Inspector frowned, unsettled, blood obviously running cold, "Does that mean he'll go after the jury members he blackmailed too? Witnesses? What about his attorney? How far will that go?"

Sherlock still did not bother to look at them, mind almost visibly working up a fury as he stared ahead, "Doubt he will care about the jury. The lawyer... maybe. I would check on the guards from the trial though, if I were you."

Lestrade sighed, resting back into the chair in resignation, rubbing at his temples to try to sway the headache brewing.

The familiar rapping of Mrs. Hudson sounded on the door, "Sherlock, John?" Her lilting voice traveled through the door, "I've got someone here you might want to see, but I'm not sure you'll exactly want to see her, considering everything. I'm not really sure how you will feel about it but she seems to think she can tell you something useful." She was babbling to the door the way she sometimes did when she knew for a fact they were close enough to hear.

Sherlock did not so much as twitch, not moving to open the door for her.

John rolled his eyes, "I'll get it." He muttered, shooting Sherlock a glare as he tossed himself to his feet and strolled to the door, tossing it open.

The elderly woman smiled lopsidedly at John, "I wouldn't have shown her the door but she said she has information about _him_. I didn't think I could risk turning her away if she was telling the truth, which is unlikely, considering."

A figure brushed lightly past the little woman, gently moving by her without permission. John, however, was nearly bowled over by the mousy little woman, ginger hair pulled back into a tail, jeans and a cheap jacket she obviously threw on, looking very much the same as she had the night John and Sherlock had broken into her flat handcuffed together.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm here to hire you. A matter of mutual interest, you could say." A nasal, sickly kitten's purr was stroking all three men the wrong way instantly the minute she spoke.

"Kitty Riley." Sherlock's voice had taken a plunge into the depths until it was a dark growl, his eyes narrowed as he stared holes into her, eyeing her round face with clear disdain.

John stammered a minute as he stared, "Y-you! What the bloody hell are you doing here?" He had a death grip on the door, holding it like he intended to toss her right back out.

"Oh, not this bloody mess again! She's got some nerve!" Lestrade glared first, shook his head, and then hid his face in his palm. "Think we all had enough the first round, more even!"

"That's what I said!" Mrs. Hudson interjected from the door.

"Hold on!" She held up a hand, "It's not what you're thinking." The words were so rushed they were hard to understand. "I need your help!"

"Oh, no!" John shook his head, voice tightening the way it did when his anger was spiking, "You are the reason all that happened, the reason that man got as far as he did! You don't get to walk in here now and try again!"

The anger and desperation was spiking, the coils in her shoulders tightening as she opened her mouth to let fly some colorful comments of her own.

"She doesn't want an interview, John." Sherlock's calm, even voice connected with John as well as Kitty, stilling both, "No news paper, even the lowest of the tabloids want her, turning on their own shark, after such a public fiasco." He neglected to mention he thought Mycroft might have even blackened her name a bit out of spite, "The best she has now is working at a coffee shop in the morning and an antique store in the evening. Coffee stains are on her sleeves, some in the seam of the front, and older ones on her pants the wash could not totally clean; no one spills coffee on themselves that often unless it is work related. Recent burn on her right hand. She reeks of coffee beans too, I can smell her from here."

"And what gave the other away?" She drawled in that thickened, nasal tone.

"Dust on your jacket?" The elderly woman ventured, interested and still invested in the conversation as she slipped in to attempt to sit in on the goings on, headed for the kitchen and probably the tea pot.

John slammed the door with a good deal more force than was ever needed but Sherlock continued on as if no one spoke at all, and in his world, they surely had not.

"Moriarty's whore, didn't they call you? Made some puns about what you 'swallowed' for him, if memory serves." Sherlock continued, frowning slightly as if trying to remember something despite the fact that he forgot none of it.

"You kept up with your reading while you were away, then." Kitty nodded grudgingly, but mainly unaffected. "But I'm not here to talk about either of our falls from grace." Her eyes did widen at that, John and Greg going positively stiff, "I didn't mean that as a pun, it just came out."

The blue-greens eyes fixed on her, ignoring her words, "You have been threatened, something big enough to make you run to a place you knew you would not be welcomed when the original broadcast was not enough to have you pounding on my door." Sherlock, clad in his lounge clothing and robe looked oddly so much more regal and in controlled than he had any right to for a man in his living room rather than a courtroom, "No doubt you thought he might overlook you considering you were his 'friend' and thus elevating you from the hit list. Something changed, an attempt on your life, I would hazard a guess."

She grudgingly nodded, "Rich-Moriarty took a few shots at me. I dug one of the bullets out of the wall, if you want to see."

Sherlock actually grinned, his voice dropping low again, "Is that so? Now _why_ would he bother to shoot at you, _Kitty_? You make enemies of some rather bad people, don't you!" None of them missed the dangerous hint in his words or voice, the brimming hate he still held for her, and they all found themselves wondering what he might do with her.

* * *

><p>The lights in the flat were all on but she still felt like the darkness was clinging to every corner. There would be marks in the carpet from her pacing by morning, she could be sure, but she could not hold still. Toby had paced with her a while before he gave up on her returning to bed. She was surprised he stayed with her at all after she literally kicked him from the bed in her fit.<p>

Every time she blinked she was terrified she would open her eyes to see Moriarty standing in her living room the way he had been in the dream. She could see him everywhere! No one in the world could fight a ghost and this one was more than a slight threat of being more real than she cared for.

A real ghost could hurt her, could hurt the people around her, could use everything he knew against them. He lurked in her mind like a shadow and walked the halls of her home courtesy of memory. If she had only known how she would later regret the time she let him come to her flat for that movie, the third date, she would have done it all differently. How had she been such a fool? She should have just moved!

She regretted confessing some of those fears to him that night; like the near drowning incident when she was five at a public pool that had her secretly terrified of a death in water. His first kill was in a pool, ironically, that might be nostalgic for him, good god! She should have known it was an odd question for a man to ask. Thirteen year old girls asked questions like those, but not grown men on dates unless they had reason, as a rule.

How had she been so utterly taken in? Because she wanted to be? Because she wanted to believe he was interested in her? Because she thought she saw a familiar loneliness in him and thought they could help each other somehow? To date, she was not entirely sure how it all happened.

What was more, she could not understand how she could have let him as close as she had. Her walls had been down with the man. Unlike most of the men she tried to chase Sherlock from her heart with, the thought had once crossed her mind that if she gave it enough time and let it flow, she had the potential to care for him. How had she been so bloody insane?

That was what had her more afraid than anything, how close he had been to being under her skin. Now that he was alive and back, he would use it all because he was too brilliant not to have seen it. He would use it all and it would be a slow drag to kill her, like drowning a thousand times.

A tear streaked down her face, her breaths coming in shaking gasps. He could drive her to a panic attack without even being in the room in person. Her own mind did much of the battle for him. That was how he worked though, she supposed. Spider webs.

The first part of the dream had been bad enough, him killing her slowly and horribly, but once that table with John's dead body appeared, things had only gotten worse. She nearly lost the milk she drank just thinking about it.

And Sherlock.

Her subconscious was cruel, making her live every moment she feared the very most! Dreaming of being tormented herself had seemed bad in the beginning but she finally woke herself up screaming "stop!" Waking up did not erase anything, it only made reality and a dream bleed together in her mind.

Jim reminded her of everything she ever told him about Sherlock, everything he gleaned from his time with her that he had been able to twist. According to him, Mycroft was not the only reason he knew so much about Sherlock. He said, "I owe it all to you, Molls! You were so helpful!"

The sobbing began anew even though she tried to contain herself. She was reaching for her phone again even though she knew the absolute absurdity of it. It had been a struggle not to call him just to hear his voice and assure herself he was alright. Her fingers brought her to his name again and the unsent text she typed earlier, or rather the fifth draft of a text. The last thing she settled on was: "So, how is the case going?" An innocent enough text, very innocent, and a good question too!

He would be up, even at this hour, he always was when he was working. Never slept on a case. How he managed not to let that mind go dull from lack of sleep was a mystery, no pun intended.

She gasped, eyes widening when she realized she pushed send. That was a mistake, a stupid mistake! Of course, he would never answer it, so it was fine! Her head sagged, chin hitting her chest. Thank goodness she did not accidentally send any of the other messages about how worried she was or how frightened... didn't send the very long message about how sorry she was.

He wouldn't answer.

She glanced at the clock, frowning at it. What if he really did not answer her? Could she actually ever relax? Perhaps she might follow it with a comment about the fibers, something to catch his interest, something to make him reply. She might even shoot a theory at him, make him correct her if nothing else.

Yes, she should do that! He would respond if she annoyed him, that way she could at least feel sure he was well and alive. If she knew he was alright she could go back to bed. If Sherlock was well that would mean everything was going to be fine.

What could she ask? What could he not ignore?

Molly squeaked when her phone vibrated in her hands, a violin -his tone- sounding at her. She chewed at her lip as she opened the message with a shaky set of fingers.

**_Go to sleep, Molly. -SH_**

Her body relaxed slowly, a smile curling her lips thankfully. He was alright! Not dead! Thank God! Sherlock was just as always, up and irritable. If she squinted, she could spot a hint of him taking care of her in that text. That order was his way of saying all was well and gruffly telling her to relax. A giddy laugh bubbled up from no where and she felt utterly foolish for how happy the text made her. She really was a schoolgirl at times!

**_I mean it. Go to bed or I might catch you sleeping on the job again. -SH_**

With a wry grin, she shot him back a response, "Goodnight, Sherlock bloody Holmes."

Molly got to her feet, inexplicably calmer after that. She was oddly calm, sure Sherlock would have it all in hand. He would not be caught a second time by that man. This round, he would be ahead and he would be on top. Moriarty had so little to fall back on now. Sherlock obliterated his entire network, he would be working mainly alone now. It was different than before. His own people had lost faith in him. He had no one and Sherlock had the world.

She headed to the bathroom, turning on the water in the tub, making sure it was hot as she could get it before she slipped in. That bath she had planned finally seemed a good idea. The heat melted the rest of her tension away and let her just relax. It did not take long before she accidentally fell asleep. Falling asleep in the water was a horrid idea but she was too relaxed to fight it.

How long she was in that water was not really known to her, but she jolted awake, heart pounding like she might drive herself to heart failure when she heard that voice echoing inside her head.

"It's dangerous to fall asleep like that, Molls. Never know _who _might slip up on you. You might _drown!_"

Molly was up, scrambling out, water pouring off her, reaching for her towel just before she slipped on the slick floor. Her knees burned from the impact but she was on her feet in another beat anyway, towel swiftly coiled around her body as she burst from the bathroom.

Her wide brown eyes scanned the living room in a frantic search, his face peeking down at her beside the bath so vivid she was utterly positive it had been real. But no one was in the room, nothing was out of place. She sagged in place, ashamed of how terrified she had actually been. These dreams were going to drive her mad.

A shiver ran up her body as a breeze hit her damp skin and she rubbed at her arms, teeth already chattering. The curtain fluttered to her right and she glared at the offending open window, surging forward to slam it closed with a vengeful growl. What was it doing open anyway?

Her jaw suddenly went slack as the realization hit her. The window had been open. It was open. She had not opened it. She never would have even left it unlocked at night, especially now.

Molly whirled, absolute terror freshly pumping in her, "Tom?" She ventured as she slowly tiptoed toward the bathroom where her phone was mixed in with her clothing, "Sherlock?"

_Please_, she prayed silent and desperate prayers, _let it be one of them!_

Oh, her eyes fell on the closed door to her bedroom. The door had been open when she went to bathe. Tears sprung into her eyes as she struggled to take breaths, stopped cold where she stood. The bathroom door was right next to her room, she would have to walk beside it to get to her clothing or her phone. She did not want to! She did not want to!

There was little choice. If he came at her, she should be able to get into the bathroom and slam the door just in time if she ran. She could make it, she could! She had to get her phone, had to tell Sherlock! Telling Sherlock was the priority and she knew it. She had to warn him! That though swallowed her other reasoning, because she had to make sure Sherlock could stop him!

One foot slowly inched forward, readying her to bolt. Heart jumping to hear throat, she screamed when the world suddenly went black, body jolting back, every light in the house gone out at once. She positively shrieked when arms wound around her waist and chest, pulling her back against a hard chest. Her mind registered the feel of leather gloves on his hands digging into her flesh as she writhed in his hold, desperate to get away. She twisted, craning her neck to at least see his face, she had to see his face to know exactly how panicked to be!

When she did catch a glimps, there was nothing there, nothing but the slight gleam of eyes. God, it _was _a ghost!

He stilled her to stone with only a quiet, "_Shhh..."_ breathed into her ear.

* * *

><p>AN: Had to bring Kitty in because I was curious what happened to her after Moriarty was revealed! Wasn't everyone? I mean, Anderson was totally ruined and we have not even seen Sally since the fall! No mention of them at all!<p> 


	8. Screaming Color

_Tomorrow Is Fading_

_Screaming Color_

_*BBC Sherlock_

_*Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, John Watson, Greg Lestrade, etc._

_AN: Push by Sarah McLachlan and Signal Fire by Snow Patrol were songs I listened to while writing Sherlock's thoughts regarding her. I think he has big issues admiting how much he cares about anyone, worse since he came back after two years on the run. He feels very deeply but he can't get past all the ideas that it will hold him back and logic has to be involved, or his logic. Heads up, things are going to get darker for Molly soon._

* * *

><p>There was a distinct bite to the night air, the darkness looming over the group like a curtain pulled tightly closed over the sky, hiding even the stars as they hardly seemed to be shining and the moon was nothing better than a sliver overhead. The four figures making their way over the walkway and winding their way around the building made little effort to alter it, content to hide themselves from prying eyes, though Sherlock did sway his small flashlight around erratically as he examined each detail. He looked all the more like a crazed and intense predator as his svelte figure sliced through the thick darkness, the leader of a straggling pack, perhaps.<p>

While his entourage trailed behind him, hands shoved deeply into the pockets of their coats, he seemed oblivious to all but the case at hand. His eyes blazed as he rapidly scanned the scene with an eagle's eyes, missing not a single solitary item that could be used as information. The machine efficient mind remained sharp and swift even as his followers clung behind him in the shadows as if awaiting the phantoms potentially lurking within the unknown. The shorter woman seemed all the more content to linger back in the two men's shadows, feet shuffling her from side to side the way a deer ready to bolt might.

"The shots were fired from that roof, a normal sniper's riffle used." Sherlock barked back at them as he waved at the building across from them with the light, "What is curious though," he glanced at Kitty as she fidgeted nervously from the darkest place in the area, partly hiding behind the cab as much as possible, "is that he missed! She can't be that difficult of a target, look at her! Her hair practically makes her a walking bullseye!" Sherlock was ever blunt, but he even seemed annoyed to have this particular victim alive and able to tell them where to look.

Her wiry frame stiffened, chin aloft as if to protest but she said not a word, a wise choice considering.

"Are you saying he missed on purpose?" John frowned, brows twisting into a wrinkled mess with his focus honed, "Why?" He rubbed his gloves together absently as he stared at the obvious circular hole in the outside wall.

"Yeah," Lestrade arched a single brow, his irritation only having grown exponentially since they walked out into the cold with a woman he held no more love for than a flee, "why not just finish her off? It could hardly be _sentimentality!_"

Sherlock's expression shifted, his face screaming everything he was not as he focused his near glowing eyes on the little woman, prowling to stand before her. She shrank back under his intense stare, looking so like a fawn before a wolf that it could have been comical under other circumstances. One might have also pitied her the plight of being fixed under those ice blue eyes, his pent up rage still very visible in the darkening twist of disgust in his upper lip, if not for their history. The woman who helped ruin the greatest detective in London brokered no sympathy from any in this circle.

"Why would _anyone_ use a loud mouth, yapping poodle to wave as a red flag under our noses?" Sherlock purred in his deep baritone, enjoying the way she withered under his analytic eye.

John's expression fell instantly in dread but Greg spoke first in pure exasperation, "About the same reason he did before! To bloody well distract us!" He turned on his heels, bounding for the woman like a pitbull, figer extended and waving under her nose, "I **_swear_**, if you're in it with him again-!"

"No!" Kitty yelped, stepping back, eyes wide an panicked, "I'm not in _anything_! He **shot** at me!"

"And we do all feel so _bad_ about that too, Kitty." Sherlock rumbled deep in his throat like a tiger, "If only we had warned you about his loyalty program sooner!"

"Look," She nearly launched herself at each of them at once, "I said I was sorry about all that! Had I known the truth about him, I'd never have gotten involved in any of it!"

"You might not have understood him," Sherlock's eyes were on her with such force that it was a wonder he had yet to melt her under the heat, "but he understood you and all that desperation, the same as I did when we met. You were an easy target then, and you still seem to be, which is why we know he missed intentionally. He knew you would come running to us like some sort of town crier, you didn't have to be involved for him to use you again."

"But why bother to send her our way? What was he afraid we'd get in the way of?" John sounded so pleading, begging Sherlock to know, pleading to get out of the cold and the worry and the mess of having the old enemy back in their life.

As if on queque, Lestrade's cell began to ring its protests and all eyes shot to the dull coat pocket.

"That very well may be the answer to your question, John." Sherlock chirped almost eagerly, shifting from his petulant mood to one of eager anticipation as the inspector answered rather sharply.

There was a silence over the group as they studied his face in the dim light of a distant street light. The disgraced reporter hardly seemed to be daring to take a breath, only glad that the attention had been taken off of her but also very clearly worried about the potentials of what could await her later. She cared no more for being shot at than the obvious indication that she might be entangled in a fully new plot without ever having seen her dear old Richard. If anything, she was slowly sneaking back toward the waiting cab as if in hopes that she could slip away without notice if she just did it slowly enough.

Sherlock knew perfectly well she was not involved in any plot, she was not a good enough actress for that nor was she bright enough. Once again, though less directly, she was nothing more than a pawn in the game. She was still as meaningless as she had always been. There was absolutely no chance at all that Moriarty would involve her in any great depth again because she outlived her usefulness. If anything, he was surprised she was still alive and he doubted she would be much longer. Whatever rolls she played, this was likely it, which would mean she no longer had any reason in the master criminal's mind to remain breathing. He tended to break his toys from what the detective had witnessed. Things had a use to Moriarty and once it was finished, so too were they.

"Oh, you damn well better be _joking_! I'm not in the mood for this, you _better_ be joking!" Lestrade growled into his phone, already pacing and motioning with his free hand, "How is that even possible? We're _at_ his last crime right now!"

John and Sherlock watched the anger build in the inspector's face and the mounting dread, exchanging glances as they waited in silence.

The call was rather viciously ended with more force than ever could have been needed and the very agitated man turned back to look at them. Kitty Raley very swiftly took her chance to slide into the cab and shut the door, not interested in being any more involved than she already was. The gentlemen would not miss her in the slightest, only Sherlock even noticed her absence from the gathering at all.

Sherlock, in his typical tone of distant knowing observation was first to speak, "Another murder, some distance away, something recent that would make it difficult or impossible for the killer to shoot at Kitty."

The edge in Greg's voice was in full swing, adding gravel to the tone, "You're half right." He shoved his phone into his pocket with vengeful force, "It was six murders, three judges, a secretary unlucky enough to be working late, and two guards!"

That did indeed up the game! He was getting far bolder, this killer of theirs, proving again that he was good enough not to need to prove himself at all.

"All killed the same way? How on earth did he manage that high a count at one time? Surely they could not all have just stood about waiting for him in line!" John hissed, more irritated than he was even letting on, the fear just beginning to peek through as his mind very clearly strayed to his wife at home.

Sherlock made a mental note to send John home shortly to check on Mary and ease his sanity. The added number of bodies added to the likelihood that he was a very, very good killer and John could not exactly be expected _not_ to think on his very pregnant -clearly handicapped by it no matter how good she was- wife.

"The guards were shot, the secretary had her throat cut, and the others were killed the same as usual."

"Who were the judges?" Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets, finally noticing the chill in the air as he stood still.

"That's the thing, one of them was a Master of Rolls!" Greg shook his head, clearly not at all ready to have heard news like that before he would have liked to go to bed. "It's a _big deal_ now if it wasn't before and everyone is scrambling like _mad!_"

"Microft won't be too happy about it either. It might mess up his silent club meetings." John muttered under his breath.

"Why is he doing this?" Greg muttered imploringly, also clearly wanting Sherlock to just answer it all and be done with it, no more interested in facing that particular nightmare all over again than John. "He picked off the ones from his trial, why not just end this madness? What's his game this time? Taking down the entire system one at a time?" His hands flew to his head as if a sudden headache was setting in, "I mean, who's next? The Lord Chief Justice? What's more, if he couldn't have shot at Kitty, does that mean there is two of them?"

"Calm yourself." Sherlock warned in a rather parental tone, "That's what he wants, the panic and chaos. He wants everyone shaking in their place in fear of what he can do. It's a game like it always is."

"It's working!" Greg hissed, "Everyone's off their head about this!"

Tone bland, eyes wandering, Sherlock muttered a quick question to dismiss the delirium, "Where did it happen?"

Lestrade licked his lower lip, clearly not caring to say, "Newport."

That drew a flash from the detectives eyes, "How far from Tredegar House?"

John went absolutely stiff at the mention of that overly familiar location, the tripwire to the last horror of events but Lestrade only looked irritated, "Well, I don't know _exactly_ how close, but close enough!"

Sherlock let out a hum and nodded, marching to the second waiting cab, intent to let the woman go anywhere she pleased. If Moriarty wanted her dead she would be, there was no point in fighting to protect her when he had better things to worry over, and he did not want to. Lestrade could worry over her, put guards on her and let his men die for nothing if that was what let him sleep at night, it was up to him. As for him, and likely John, they were going to be looking into the case.

She was a distraction, nothing more, and he did not have time for her. Whatever she was intended to keep them from seeing, he was not about to be fooled. It could not have been to keep them away from Newport, or not totally. Moriarty should know he would not take Kitty's case over six deaths. Whatever it was she was to keep them from, he needed to find it before it showed itself. The killings would be the fastest way of find the next move.

"Where are you going?" Greg very nearly whined like an irritable child.

"The same place you will be." Sherlock shot over his shoulder as he kept walking.

"Do you know what time it is, Sherlock? You're not getting to Newport before morning, no one will let you in." The inspector shot at him without even hoping for a reaction. "And I have to be sure we are authorized, you know!"

Once he slipped into the cab, John sliding in at his side, his phone rang. A quick glance told him it was Molly calling, though why she would bother calling him for comfort to what had to be another bad dream was beyond him. It had been a little while since she sent him those messages and he assumed she was doing well enough, apparently it had not lasted. He drew a breath through partly open lips, eyes fluttering with a strange sense of unease.

He was no use at comforting anyone and never would be. How exactly could she trust him to be of any use at all when he tended to be the reason she was upset, the cause of her ire at any given time? The fact that she still trusted him to be of any use when even John clearly gave up hope that he would ever be a descent human being -they had never spoken of Magnusen since it happened even though it hung in the air like an ignored poison- was a little baffling. She seemed to think he could be better than he knew for a fact he was. Not that she always thought so, he had seen her stop hoping, and seeing that, oddly made him feel a bit less human, or maybe it was more. Either way, it felt like loss, like he lost his way, like she somehow managed to be his grounding, his light, and when she stopped holding firm for him, he too could not hold himself up.

Likewise, he did not know how she began to trust him again. Maybe he just thought she did and it was just wishful thinking. Moriarty actually seemed to have been the changing factor there, come to think of it. Not that he held her opinion as driving force, because he didn't. Regardless of how she felt, he still had his unrelenting roll that had nothing to do with her. He did not need anyone, of course. He got along just fine without John, Molly, Lestrade, or anyone else for two years. Well, actually, he got along without them for his entire life, so why he would need them now was a foolish notion. They were merely factors in his life, pieces of the story but nothing more.

While he did care about them, as strange a thing as that was, he was not dependent on them. He would protect them, he had done everything he could to protect them, but he did not need them. Thinking anything different would be a lie in his own mind. They were necessary pieces to every case, each one playing a part in every puzzle. They had rolls he needed them to follow. Lestrade was obvious in purpose, John helped him think and helped his test theories, and Molly was his pathologist. That was perfectly logical.

"You going to get that or just let it ring all night?" John sniped, snapping Sherlock out of his thoughts he did not even realize he was in.

The detective responded by tapping the ignore button and slipping it into his coat pocket again without a word.

Well, he did not have time to quell her fears. She would have to battle her night terrors alone for the moment because he could not help her. He was chasing a common enemy and catching him would be the best way to solve her fearful nights in the long run, so he was still assisting her in a less direct way.

* * *

><p>The click sounded when the ringing shifted to the beginnings of an automated voicemail and he ended the call. It was a shame Sherlock did not answer. It would have gotten them to the main play a bit sooner. No matter, he did not mind letting it drag out a bit longer, just a bit. The call was literally nothing but a whim. His partner would be less than pleased if he went against the plan anyway, especially when he had been so insistent that they take their time. Long games gave them more time to twist the ropes more tightly.<p>

But he was bored. He missed playing the games and hated staying so quiet! He was a patient man but he did have limits.

With a sigh, he set the phone down on her little table, shifting to his knees to crawl closer and he hovered over her prone body. All wrapped up in her little white towel, she was quite a sight. When he came he had been expecting her to be in bed but this was even better. He had laid her out on the couch like a little doll to look her over while she was dead to the world from a light blow to the head. She was totally at peace, oblivious to the world around her now and that meant he could play with her a little.

His gloved fingers carded through the long, straight strands of her hair. She was equally as beautiful in the dark as he remembered her to be, the soft glows from outside were more than enough to see by. He loved looking at her in the dark, it made her look the mystery she truly was. When she slept, he enjoyed staring at her, given freedom to ponder her when she could not see how closely he was staring. People were always easier to study if their guard was down.

Her closed lids hid those beautiful, open windows of hers, his favorite aspect of her. Her eyes could scorch a man to the soul and set him on fire, they cast a spell. Her eyes told so many stories, telling every secret to anyone listening in lovely silence. The sparkling light behind them was what made the chocolate so beautiful.  
>It was fortunate that her eyes were close or he might have done something to break the game before it was ready. The mask and his silence while she was awake was to prevent his hand being shown yet even through his selfish and silly play. Not that his entire play tonight had been anything but a little risks that could ruin things, but it was not as bad as some of his ideas had been.<p>

He could not help tugging the mask away enough to plant a kiss to the top of her adorable button nose. So adorable, little, gentle, sweet as candy, Molly. He had missed the little creature in spite of himself.

At different times in his life, he had danced with far more beautiful women than the pathologist but her beauty was different than the plastic beauties in department store windows. Molly was natural, raw, real, and tender like young meat. The gentleness and rivaling tough spirit made her an extraordinary mixture between sweet angel and some greek goddess of fire or some other volatile substance. The fact that she was different made her so much more of a draw, more tempting, and more _interesting_ above all. He could not understand her fully and that _drew_ him so much!

She would be so delicious to take apart, he was certain.

Very slowly, his fingers traced a line down her jaw until they lay over her throat, his thumb caressing circles over the lily column. There was so much he could do to her; innocent things, dark things, and very surely deadly ones too. Indeed, if he chose to make her one, she would be a lovely corpse for Sherlock to find.

He allowed his eyes to trail over her slowly. When he came tonight he had around ten different ideas on what he might do with her depending on how she reacted. He had not decided which of those ideas he intended to follow until the last second when he triggered the device he attached to the lights beforehand. This had been one of the more pleasant of his ideas. She should be glad Sherlock did not answer. If he had, things would have been so much different tonight. He should not have come, jumped in too soon, so it was lucky for them both.

Mainly, he just could not stand to sit back while "Tom" had all the fun and wanted to beat him to any further moves. Tormenting her sounded so enjoyable and he wanted a slice of it after being deprived of it all for so long. He was jealous of all the fun and could not resist entering in just a bit. It had been so long since he had come around. Sebastian had spent so much time with her that he found himself at a disadvantage which he just could not have!

It was not the best reason but he could justify it easily enough. He could justify anything he cared to. This was really more his show anyway so he could change a few rules if he wanted to. It would be a while before Sebastian found out anyway.

Besides, Sherlock would find out the secrets soon enough, no matter how well they hid, he already knew that. They could hide quite a lot, cover the trails, but there was only so much they could do before that bird dog sniffed his way into things. There was no way the secret could stay secret very long after this latest job and he knew that. If Sherlock did not find out at least a good piece of what they were hiding in the next few days, well, he was slipping! That was still a few days and so much could be done in that time!

They had plenty of time and he believed they were ready enough for the inevitable. The reveal would be the fun part, if they got to do it before Sherlock let the cat out of the bag! They had such a grand idea on how to play the grand finale too!

Leaning closer, he trailed his lips over her jaw before running his tongue around the shell of her ear, savoring the taste of her again. He traced lines down her neck again until he pressed his lips to her fluttering pulse, relishing the feel of it a moment before he reached into his pocket to withdraw the blade. Dear, adorable Molly would be his entertainment for the evening while Sherlock played with Kitty.

He reached up and slid the very sharp blade over her perfect little shoulder, watching as little drops of blood slowly rippled to the surface in the tiny slit. With a little noise of appreciation, he licked away the pretty little beads. The real challenge of the night would be stopping himself from going just a little crazy because he really, really could enjoy this.

* * *

><p>AN: I'm still no good at writing Sherlock but I try and I'll try harder, promise! I know this chapter didn't get that far in explaining but I wanted to make the next chapter go together so I cut it off a little.<p> 


	9. Chemistry of a Car Crash

_Tomorrow Is Fading_

_Chemistry of a Car Crash_

_*BBC Sherlock_

_*Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, John Watson, Greg Lestrade, etc._

_AN: Warnings for blood, violence, and death._

_Thank you all for the kind reviews, they mean a lot and make me believe I'm doing better than I really am! Thanks for making my days!_  
><em>Also, yes, the title is a song.<em>

* * *

><p>The noise was utterly intolerable, the ringing phones, chirping hold warnings, people buzzing in mindless chatter. He felt like his ears were being battered by the shrill nonsense of it all. Sitting in his flat was so quiet and peaceful but this was a terminal form of torture not at all conducive to thinking properly. Sherlock was not even as used to John's noise now that he was not a constant fixture, making it worse still. It was little wonder Lestrade could never hold onto a single thought in his head when he was surrounded with this mindless mutiny to logic and order.<p>

There were times he did hold a deep understanding for his nemesis' distaste and disregard for the rest of the mundane humanity and their addled minds. People were rather fortunate he did not voice a great many of his ideas. At times he thought over the likely disturbing ideas of actually-

Lestrade slammed the door shut with a flick of his wrist, phone still screwed to his ear as he listened to some droning voice on the other end, an utterly irritable expression on his face as if he so badly wanted to shout his real opinions into the receiver. Opinions that were rather unflattering even to Sherlock's standards if he correctly read the silent words the inspector inadvertently formed with his lips.

Sitting in the office with door closed was not nearly enough to still the vibration under his skin. The insanity outside made him want to crawl up the walls even if he sat perfectly still, an outward picture of stoic indifference. It was far more a zoo than normal in the station, something about a massive accident and a lot of frantic people calling, he paid little attention, it did not matter in the slightest to his current problem. If someone called about a connection to the dead judges, maybe about Moriarty, that would be a different story!

"Of course I understand, Sir, but-" The voice rudely cut in and Greg's eyes narrowed, lips pursing to keep himself from blurting out anything he should keep in his own mind. "Yes, I'm aware-" And there it was again, the interruption.

Bureaucracy was a ludicrous and utterly horrible thing. He could also understand his brother's distaste for people in general, though how Lestrade managed not to go utterly mad or lose that odd gentleness within him was the real puzzle; gentleness, at the moment, hidden under dark circles and bags under his eyes as well as the scowl occupying space across his features.

It was only good for occasionally getting him what he wanted when used correctly. If he learned one single thing from his brother it was that politics could be used. Like it or not, there were ways to get one's way. As usual, he did get his way. John, Lestrade, and himself had visited the scene of the crime, much to their distaste for the late night travel and much to the protest of quite a few officers. The Newport morgue worker had been similarly displeased about being made to come in at three in the morning.

Well, he didn't particularly care if his solving the crimes of national importance got in the way of their sleep cycle. Had the victim not been as important though, he was more than slightly sure he would not have gotten his way quite so easily. Lestrade and Molly would have done it at a word no matter what the inspector claimed but a different district was another matter. Luckily the dead judge was important in the grand scene, so he got more wiggle room; it was so nice when the dead were useful to him.

For the case, they let him have his way, protests kept to a minimal. It was not as free as he liked but it was not as bad as crossing jurisdictions could go.

Their killer was good too! He sneaked in behind the secretary after the judges went into conference, slit her throat before she could alert the guards to danger and hid her under the desk. Once that was done, he perched on the ledge above them, crouched on the stairs in order to get the angle on the shot, landing a bullet in each of the guards brains to dropping them with minimal sound as well since a silencer was used. The shot though, was the most impressive of feats considering there was absolutely no margin for error at such a blasted angle; it was better than even Mary, so close to flawless that the mistakes were hardly worth pointing out, unlike the shots taken at the reporter, which missed her by a few kilometers. Not the same shooter and not even the same gun. While the events were connected, they were not carried out by the same person. He would know that even if the time differences did not conclusively prove it. Not to mention there were no matches up on Kitty's roof when he was quite sure there would have been if it had been the same shooter.

The rest, killing three rather older and not exactly fit judges was a simple enough task. Though, rerouting the calls from the dead secretary's desk was a nice touch as well, further avoiding any notice of anything amiss. The system did it automatically with a few presses of buttons and it took some time for anyone to have reason to even question why the secretary continually forwarded calls along to other circuits. And they had found the secretary first; an annoyed secretary that found much more than a lazy co worker shirking her duty. It suggested knowledge from the inside, once again. The killer transitioning from one place to the other, clearly having been a staple in both.

Lestrade and every other inspector in the system was searching for any males fitting the description of the man on the camera without a face but it was so generic that it was a little hard to narrow the field without more to narrow it.

Molly had gotten just a little tissue from the dead lawyers fingers, just a trace that their killer missed when clipping her nails. That would go a long way in finding him once the results she sent off for returned. The hair and fibers might be useful as well once Molly finished them, if she had not yet.

He would check in with her soon too. She had not contacted him again since he ignored her call and he hoped that was a good sign,a sign she sleep and fought of her demons alone.

The little reporter had been placed in some far out of the way place, or so he had been told. Why that was would remain a mystery considering he already told them she was worthless as a witness with no foreseeable value in the case. Morality so often got in the way of the normal man and wasted so much resources and time that it was utterly stupid. None of his concern though if they wasted time protecting a woman that was destine to die regardless of what they did. Apparently he should feel somehow bad about that but, well, he didn't.

Lestrade tapped his fingers on the desk to gain the attention of the rooms only other breathing figure; John had gone home to Mary, "Sherlock, you have to give us more on this guy! Do you know how many men look as generic as this?" He was off the phone now, which was good. "I'm going mad here, I'll have you know! This guy blends into any room, according to you, so how are we supposed the stop him before he does this again?"

"He's a smoker, trying to quit, but still uses his old habit of lighting a match to determine the direction and speed of the wind." Sherlock mumbled, tugging at his collar and rolling his neck, "He's ambidextrous so he can fool almost any test. The shooter switched hands with the gun in order to hit the second guard before shock could wear off and let him move out of range but not a fraction of accuracy in the aim was lost. Some people would say he was right handed and others left, both would be correct, but it makes him harder to pin down."

"While that's well and good, I meant something I could use." Greg grumbled aloud, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You didn't specify." Sherlock shot back testily.

"At any rate, the big guys are upping security in every court, talking some wild things. Bloody lot of good it will do, probably just increase the death rate." The inspector's shoulders slumped as his eyes drifted out the window, "Not that doing nothing would help either. This is why I hate your playmates, Sherlock! They make ,my life so damn difficult!"

"Mummy always did tell me not to pick things up off the street." Sherlock's voice was little better than a growl, none too keen on being lumped in with the group as "playmates" but it was not wholly untrue considering, "Have they gotten those samples Molly sent off tested yet?"

"They should be nearly ready considering the pressure has to be mounting." Greg's sigh moved his entire body, "No way to know but to call around though."

"So call." Sherlock was on his feet already, sick of the stagnation, "We can go to the lab and test the samples I took from the bodies."

Lestrade stiffened instantly, face suddenly guarded, "You were not supposed to take samples."

His sharp eyes fixed the other man with incredulity for a moment before he shook out his lapel.

Without a further response, the consulting detective marched from the room, a disgruntled inspector at his heels. While it was a far cry from John, or Molly for that matter, he did not exactly mind. Once upon a time, Lestrade was the one following him rather than either of the doctors. It was this man that took a risk and began letting him consult to begin with. It could be nostalgic. He did not dislike the man's company as much as he openly would declare to his last breath, he even enjoyed it on occasion, a thing he would never admit to a living soul.

* * *

><p>The early morning sun reflected in blinding sparks of starburst off the surface of the windows as well as off every single vehicle that passed them on the road. The chill of the night had not fully diminished with the heat of the sun, only giving a slight thaw, not enough to leave the heater off, even if it was on low. Not many houses whizzed past the small, spotless, though not particularly expensive black car. By all standards, it was a normal vehicle on a normal day, passing other normal vehicles gong to very normal and obviously mundane destinations. That well might have been true if the occupants of the car had been different or the destination of a milder intent, but such was not the case this day.<p>

All the little people wandering about on their boring ways, with inferior little minds not even fathoming any danger, not even as keen as animals that could sense it in the air, were in for a hitch in the day if they crossed paths with this car going this particular direction. If they became part of the coming carnage on the well traveled but not highly populated or well monitored stretch of motorway, their day would turn a sharp way into chaotic if not utterly deadly.

This had been part of the plan, this had not changed, though he had improvised a good portion of the details. Having a passenger along the ride with him had never been part of the plan, others things had, but he liked his way so much better! It worked out vastly better and more interesting this way! While "Tom" might not be pleased by the shift of plans he was also not the one in control, so what pleased him dictated very little. In the long run of things, they each held about the same degree of grudges, if only different reasons, so there was no reason for him to defer to Sebastian. The role of "boss" had never changed and it was not going to any time soon, oh no! While they were a far smaller little group, the order was not so different than it had been a few years ago. Spiders were so very hard to fully kill, the majority of them hiding in the walls where none could see them. It was only a stupid spider that strayed into the light and in reach of humans to be squashed.

At any rate, it was his prerogative to alter the plan a bit and include a few aspects not in the original thoughts and erase others. Everyone knew he was terribly changeable and it was even more true now than it used to be.

Jim raked his slender fingers slowly through her cashmere hair, dark, void eyes fixed on the road ahead while the other hand stayed on the wheel. His adorable little Molls was laid out beside him, spread delicately over the seat, knees curled and arms falling limply into position. To anyone passing that happened to see her, which was unlikely, they would notice little more than a young woman asleep, head draped in the lap of the driver; they probably would not take notice of the bloody clothing sticking to her wounds nor her shallow breaths.

She forced him to change his plans a bit too when she suddenly roared to life while he was at work. While he was loathed to administer a drug that might be detected in a test later, he had little choice when she suddenly was very much awake and fighting him like a little tiger. He brought the drug with him as one version of a plan but it had really only been a precaution. Turned out that he needed it regardless of wanting or not wanting to use it.

It was humorous if not just a little endearing the way she struggled so hard. He never would have guessed how resilient she could be if he had not personally been the one trying to hold her still when she recovered from that little tap he gave her.

Once given the substance there had not been any further trouble with her and he even removed his mask after injecting her considering she would remember nothing anyway. He really disliked being forced into it though and could only hope he hid the injection sight well enough with a few well placed cuts. Admittedly, she had been more fun, compliant and sluggish. It was rare for him to find anyone cute while unable to stand, but she was irresistible. She had not become an absolute dufous like most, her mind only working very slowly. Molly still knew who he was, struggled mightily to get away from him, and when he watched her struggle it stirred all the primal and predator instincts in him. He just adored the chase and catching her even though it was not exactly a challenge when she could do little better than stagger short distances before cling to furniture like a toddler.

But the game finally ended when he caught her up, relishing her whimpers as he carried her to her room where she promptly slipped away into the blackness.

Either way, Sherlock was such a liar about her chest. She told him all about the Christmas party, laughing it off while secretly pleading with him not to confirm all the brewing insecurities it brought out of her. Like a good boyfriend, he readily assured her she was perfect, and he had not been lying about appreciating her little curves. Sherlock blatantly lied or never took time to look past her neck because they were soft and round and perfect, he could not exactly have helped noticing when he dressed her.

He glanced down at the digital clock, swirling a finger around the curve of her ear. Any moment now and things should become interesting. The black car slowed to a near crawl as he decelerated, letting all the other cars pass him, a little red one honking as they passed. It might spike his anger any other time but it only drew a cruel smirk from his lips now.

The rather sharp pop, like a cap gun going off was the only real warning to trouble as the little device hidden in the front tire of the rather large passenger bus caused the tire to shatter out from under it. Moriarty and Molly glided to a full stop to enjoy the view spreading out before them, not that she was watching but he could pretend she was.

Rubber flew in all directions with a bone shaking bang, instantly followed by the sound of metal grinding very harshly over stone. Black eyes watched passively as the bus lurched and swerved erratically as the driver tried in desperation to control the massive beast even though it was hopeless. Other cars futilely tried to shy out of the way but metal screamed as the first tiny car was caught by the bumper and tosses like a clumsy child throwing a baseball from the road, sending it rolling over, and over, and over. The next vehicle was claimed as the back of the bus skidded forward, switching its positions, rolling the top of a blue car under the force and crumpling its boot like tin. The blue car in turn put an end to the retreat of a red car, sending it careening and flipping it gracelessly onto its top with the very loud sound of shattering glass.

At long last, the bus could remain upright no longer and it crashed onto its side, skidding an impressive distance as it shrieked horrifically over the road in flying sparks. The final act claimed the last of the cars as it could not get out of the way quite fast enough considering the massive conveyer was streaking down the road like a sled down a hill of snow.

The sudden silence that stretched on was almost painful in the wake of the massive amounts of deafening noise, signaling a finality to the event. The stick clicked easily into park and he eased his foot off the break, the keys dangling from the ignition as he stepped out of the car. With a nearly contented sight, he scanned the area carefully, arms draped over the door, taking care to be sure none were around to witness his next move. Fortunately there were no eyes to spot him, all too far gone from the world to care what went on about them, if they were ever to notice anything again in the first place. As he had hoped, the bus removed all of the obstacles from the scene. Perfect! It was lovely when things out of his immediate control worked out exactly as he hoped they would. This meant he could proceed freely, though he would need to be quick incase more cars arrived.

Dipping back into the car, he retrieved his passenger, dragging her over the seats before he shifted her little body into his arms. Her eyes fluttered and her head rolled onto his shoulder but she made no further indication of awakening as he moved forward. The broken glass crunched under his feet as he walked, a bit like rocks grinding together on a beach. The wind tugged insistently at him as if in an attempt to prevent him from bringing the little angel into the field of death. Indeed the dark clad figure looked a demon, his long black coat billowing around him, skin looking white in contrast, a bloody beauty in his arms as he brought her into chaos.

He did not even flinch when he stepped around a mangled mess hardly recognizable as having once been human, nor did he blink at the sticky red oozing over the surrounding surface. Glass covered the road, making it look more like a stretching sea as the sun made it gleam and sparkle. This was why he did not bring his car any closer, forced to walk the distance to avoid being stranded.

With a little huff of frustration, he kicked in what little was left of the massive windshield and stepped into the darkened wreck now likely serving more as a coffin than vehicle. The bus driver hung limp in his seat, suspended like a macabre marionette from the belt but he ducked around the unresponsive man. It was a shame it had to topple onto its side because that would make his task all the harder for his trouble, the bodies all clustered to one side, lying in awkward piles, bent or very broken. No helping it though, no one could control a crash to the last detail, even him.

Molls was unlikely to awaken any time soon, or he could not foresee that she would, which was good. By the time she began to come around, she should be safely in a hospital bed where she belonged. He was not especially worried about leaving her in the mangled mess. This was not some movie production where things were ready to explode at ten times the size of any logical scale, so the danger was minimal. If anything, the cold should help ensure that if any of her wounds reopened for some unforeseen reason, she would not bled much. The weather was helping a lot of people, actually. It was a good day for an accident if they were not in shock.

It would not matter much in the long run, he had done what needed doing with her and leaving her was part of the plan now. Jim nuzzled his cheek to the side of her face, kneeling in one of the few clearings - though glass still littered the space there was little blood - he knelt down and eased her to the ground. The urge to stroke her hair a few times more, a bit like she had become a pet in his mind, was irresistible. Molls had such soft hair and soft skin, it made him just want to touch her all day long. Quite honestly, he did not take advantage nearly enough of her willingness to let him closer while they "dated." Back then he had been careful not to frighten her by being too touchy-feely. Molly, he later came to understand once he could not have her, had become a drug, an addiction he could not actually break. She was in his veins and the lack of her was as bad as withdrawal. God, how had Sherlock managed those two years when he was even more used to being near her? Iron wills all around!

"Tom" had been quite the source of unspoken and unwanted jealousy on more than one consultant's side. It just was not fair! Honestly, he and Sherlock were both better looking-not that he said that aloud because he was no idiot-and had better style! Which was why he was here with her now, that burning need to get ahead once again, up one from Sherlock and Sebastian, feed the habit a little. Of course, this would not be the last installment, he would be playing with her again, but this time would have to suffice. He did have things to do after all!

Jim's lips connected to hers in a lingering kiss, sucking her lower lip into his mouth for a fleeting moment to get her sweet taste one last time before he pulled away, moving on to his reason for being here. No rest for a criminal, that was the life. His eyes swept the cluster of bodies - roughly around ten - quickly as he searched for the correct face. If that man was not on the bus after all this, he swore to- There! His catlike body sprang forward, stepping over a rather too tall man, joints bending him in ways they were never supposed to, in the criminal's way until he could inspect his target. Blood stained faces were everywhere, necks, arms, and various limbs not hanging quite right, like scenes from the horror movies Hollywood was so fond of creating. Yes, the right one, though he was half buried by some pregnant little redhead, oh, no, she was a blonde, his mistake. Twins by the looks of her, good Lord she was big, and that was irritating!

The target's neck was snapped, which saved him the trouble of killing him. Jim let free a twisted smirked when his eyes landed on the prize the man carried, part of it already clipped to his jacket and the other still hooked on his shoulder. At least he had the manors to keep his backpack halfway on when riding the bus so it would save Moriarty digging everywhere through the guts and gore for it. The badge clip made a snap sound when he jerked it off the jacket and tucked it into his pocket before trying to snag the bag without touching the body. The blonde was on the bag, annoyingly! People were so inconsiderate, he hated people! People always managed to be pests even when they were in car accidents! How they managed to be so annoying was really baffling!

Whatever calming zen Molls had given him was vanishing rather quickly!

Using his foot, these were throw-away shoes so it did not matter, he tried to shove her off, but damn, pregnant woman were heavy! Jim snarled, bracing on one of the bars and shoved on her shoulder harder, and after a minute she finally slid away down the stack of human pancakes. He did not have time for this bloody nonsense! This was going to give him a headache, and this was why he usually had others do these kinds of things! Less messy!

Irritably he jerked at the bag, working it roughly of the offending arm, further annoyed when even that took a minute to accomplish, before he raced out the way he had come. He would have said a fast goodbye to Molly but that took longer than he expected and cars would be arriving on the scene soon! There was no time to wait. There was no reason to-

"Oh my God!" A very shrill voice drawled, and Jim's eyes snapped to a young looking brunette, already looking teary, "Do you need a doctor, were you in there?"

His tongue flicked out to work his lower lip, "I'm fine." He did have a plan in case this happened but he was more than a little irritated to use it, "I just checked in there, it looks pretty bad!" It was hard to fake emotion as suddenly as this but he let his voice shake at the end, wrinkling his brow into a clear 'w', taking deeper breaths, "They need help, fast!"

"Oh, God..." Did she have a vocabulary or was that about all she could say at the beginning of a sentence? No, she was stupid, she would be hard pressed for better.

Jim twisted his face further in a horrified grimace, hitching his breath, "I'm going for help, you should stay here and make sure no one else gets injured."

People did not actually reason clearly when they were surprised. Going for help would seem natural even if he had a phone in hand and a doctor on the line. No one questioned things like that. Her cell was in her hand, ready to call for help, but she nodded, looking too wide-eyed with terror to speak, and he simply breezed by her. She did not move from that spot, starting at the carnage even as he climbed into his car and shifted into reverse.

People were stupid but fear made them even worse! It would be harder to get away the more people that arrived though and the more people that saw him the worse it would be. One girl would not even be able to tell them if he had red, brown, or purple hair and he intended to keep it that way.

* * *

><p>The two men shoved their way through the double doors of St. Bartholomew's, Sherlock leading like a hound on a trail. The detective stopped short when it was a very obviously recent graduate, bottle blonde, with a sour outlook on life brought about by a hostile breakup sitting in a chair he knew should be occupied by a very different person. The little girl looked up from squinting at the microscope but did not stop glaring. She looked ready to toss some very scathing remarks their way before her eyes landed on Lestrade, a smile instantly on her face. She was looking for a replacement, harboring secret preferences for older men.<p>

"Where is Molly?" Sherlock shot out before she could offer any sort of flirting greeting aimed at the inspector.

Her expression soured again instantly, "If we knew that, I would not be sitting here doing her work."

"What do you mean? Why is Dr. Hooper not in? She is always here." Lestrade seemed very oblivious to his potential train wreck love interest.

"I mean," She swiveled the seat their direction, planting her hands on her knees with a thump, "she never showed. Refuses to answer her phone, probably dodging us to get out of work. You know how that is."

"Molly never plays hooky…" Greg muttered in confusion, edging closer behind Sherlock.

"She has not answered my attempts at contact either," Sherlock mused aloud, glancing at his phone again to be utterly sure, "I assumed it was because she was busy."

"Well, she's not here, either way, gentlemen. I might be able to help you though." Her eyes traveled to Greg once again but he did not seem to even notice.

"How long have you been unable to contact her?" Sherlock grumbled, ignoring her attempts to awkward seduction, "Ms. Hooper does not ever simply not arrive at work without letting someone know."

A hand was on his arm, making him huff reflexively as he was turned around to face wide, worried eyes. Lestrade rarely looked so alarmed even though he had been in quite a few cases. There was panic in those light eyes though and the consulting detective still his protests over being touched at the sight.

"Oh, Sherlock!" The inspector's eyes widened, jaw going a little slack, color draining from his face, "You don't think.."

His brows turned down, eyes narrowing at the older man as if he sprouted a second head, not used to Greg seeming to have an epiphany before he himself had, "Think what?"

Greg's eyes hit the floor as if there should be a crystal ball hiding there, out maybe a magic 8 ball. "The distraction, you said it could not have been about the judges since we could not have done anything to get in the way of it." He looked up with pleading eyes, like a dog, expecting Sherlock to be making connections. "So it must have been something here he wanted us away from. Something like..."

The pieces fit together suddenly, what Lestrade was saying, and a lead weight was dropped into the detective's gut, "Molly. You think he went after Molly?" The twist in Sherlock's brow spoke to his incredulity before his words could. "You are jumping to conclusions."

Lestrade shook his head, voice raising the way it did when he wanted to get a point through a thick skulled individual. "Think about it! Why wouldn't he go after her? We all know they dated a few times but we also know she helped you stay alive! Why wouldn't he go after her? He's been settling scores, why not start with the main reason he didn't beat you?"

"But he doesn't care about Molly." Sherlock found himself blurting out, astounded that the option should be open even though there was validity to the argument. Molly was a viable target but he had not really been worried over her. John Lestrade, and even Mycroft crossed his mind, and he knew she was worried about it, but Moriarty cared more about games... Taking Mary would have been more an option than taking Molly. She was afraid and he understood that, knew she might be in some amount of danger, but it would be small.

The lead weight shifted and he suddenly realized, Molly was more viable than he would have said. What was to stop Moriarty from going after he before John or the original threat circle? He had been expecting Lestrade, John, Mrs. Hudson, and after all of them, Molly. Why couldn't he break the pattern though? Why had he supposed Molly would not be first? Because she did not matter? Because Moriarty did not care about her? Because she was not supposed to be the center of it?

Lestrade was still speaking out reasons he must be after the girl but Sherlock was not listening.

His shoulders suddenly felt very heavy when he began to realize why he never took her fear as seriously - though he was very tolerant of it once he realized how strong it was when he found her hiding - as he would have John's... He could not think of it. His mind could not think of it. Moly was always in the lab, always safe from danger, always overlooked. He took comfort in the fact that no one noticed her, took safety from her invisibly. She wasn't invisible though. Jim had seen her all along for the advantage she was, had gotten into her life in order to get to him. There would have been no use in her were she not such a pivotal point and that man never would have bothered with her.

Sherlock's eyes feel to the floor, away from everyone.

Moriarty could not have and would not have found her useful if she was not, in fact, close. She was a part of nearly every part of his life, his pathologist. The center of his world was her. While he had no idea when or how, she had become an intricate person in his life. He understood that he cared about her, she had saved his life, but he did not understand how he never noticed it slip up on him. Even when he realized he cared, he sort of tended to forget that it mattered. Molly was always there when he needed her, like some little guardian angel, reaching in each time he needed her regardless of whether or not he ask. She always knew what he needed and had a horrific ability of getting past all his guards, terrifying him out of his mind on more than one occasion with her uncanny accuracy. Molly knew him, really knew him, saw through him, even better than John.

The thought that anything could ever touch the woman that could outdo him was such an impossible idea. No one had even ever gone after her, no one saw her. Molly saw everyone but no one saw her, almost like she possessed some supernatural power; a power John did not possess because he had been targeted more than once, but no one had ever touched Molly. Some part of him did not believe it possible, but how could it not be? To think it impossible was like the childish idea that parents were indestructible. Those thoughts were a lie and that realization struck him with a sudden terror, one very similar to how he felt when John was being burned alive but this time all that energy had no where to go. He could only stand, hands extending, fingers flexing with nothing to catch hold of.

"We should look for her then." He heard himself mutter, "We should go to her flat, be sure she is not there." How was he developing a plan of action when his mind was such a blank?

"If she's not," Lestrade stepped in when no more words came forth from the detective, "I can put out her description, get my people on it. Then we check hospitals."

"Hospitals?" Sherlock frowned, his mind finding fault with that thought even though he fully understood it, but he blurted his reasoning before it actually had time to seep into his own understanding, "If Moriarty has her, she won't be in a hospital, he would never leave her ali-" The utter horror on Greg and the little technician's faces stopped him.

A finger waved under his nose, the older man's voice developing an edge he tended to have if he did not want to deal with something, like on the cases with children, "Don't you even say that, Sherlock, don't even think it!"

"It was the truth whether you care to acknowledge it or not. The only way he would keep her alive is as bait." He muttered reflexively.

The scathing glare that came from both people could have melted steel, "Then let's hope for that one!" The DI shook his head, "Or actually, let's hope she is sleeping off a cold and work from there, shall we?"

Sherlock's head dipped in a brief nod. There was little he could say that would make anything better. If Lestrade was right, things would not end well, he could not imagine. Weak people hoped for the best to keep their sanity, realists did not hope, they looked at the worst, pleasantly surprised if anything better happened.

* * *

><p>Careful hands worked to pry the plastic from the badge without causing damage, only needing it away enough to tamper with the photo in the corner before resealing it for use. The little badge was quite the useful tool even if he would only have need of it once, potentially twice if he could fit in a second. Quite a few people died so he could gain this, those dear souls, making sure he could go on about his business. Not that the had a choice but he would not hold stupidity fully against them. Stupidity made for great pawns, pawns the he could throw away easily and without issue, but always useful to a good game.<p>

He would be traveling right away once he got to badge ready. Tom would also be returning to take up his place around the little group, trading spaces with the consulting criminal. He hated leaving Molly with him but there was little choice for now. She would see her again, of course, because he had no intention of staying away forever! He had some very big plans for her so it would be tragic to let them go to waste.

Sherlock would be having fun soon too. He might have been enjoying the game now but he should just wait until it really began! He would be in their own personal heaven, just the way he had been in the bombing case! Yes, yes, they were going to have so much fun! The three of them, four counting Molly... five if he counted John. Well, the more people he included the higher the number would go and he was too busy for that at the moment.

He needed to focus so as not to crack the identification code or damage the card inside. Not everyone could alter these kinds of cards but he developed the skill when he was much younger, playing around with the construction of a bomb. He had skill for that, steady hands to make it work, and altering a card was no harder than tampering with a live explosive.

Oh, there, he had it! All he had to do was slip in a previously taken and sized picture of himself and he would be good to go! Perfect! They did not die for nothing, those people from earlier could drift off knowing that they had been of use. It was a little like playing Clue, people had to die in the game but no one really cared, it was just an accepted fact. People got too touchy in real life, it was silly!

* * *

><p>AN: I listened to: Rubik's Cube by Athlete and Come by Fire by Sarah Jackson-Holman. Parts of the songs make me this of Jim, Molly and Sherlock's little things.<p>

And yes, this was Jim's more pleasant idea for Molly, if you can believe it. His idea of "more pleasant" is slightly off from most people. And no, I don't think staging a massive accident it out of character for him, he does that stuff all the time. We also saw that he is willing to carry out his own crimes and his network is smaller now, forcing him to do things himself.


	10. Chasing Visions of Our Futures

Tomorrow Is Fading

Chasing Visions of Our Futures

_*BBC Sherlock_

_*Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, John Watson, Greg Lestrade, Tom, James Moriarty, etc._

_AN:Thank you all so much for the reviews! They really make my day!_

_Killer by The Hoosiers_  
><em>It's a long chapter and I switch pov's more than normal, sorry, but I wanted it all in one chapter.<em>

* * *

><p>Sherlock's fingers had been a blur as they danced over the keys of his phone, sending and answering message after message to his little network as the two men road in the taxi - Sherlock had not waited for him to get his own car so he ended up following the way John always did. The scowl on that pronounced brow grew with each passing message and each ticking second. He was a brooding, bubbling mass of nerves in a way Lestrade rarely ever saw. The only time the great detective ever got that look was when a case had been dragging on and he could find no answers, or when the case had to do with someone he cared about. Shocking as it was, the inspector had seen that look before, the well covered panic just lurking under his skin like a disease. As much as Donovan and Anderson used to claim otherwise, Greg never did believe the young man sitting beside him had no heart at all, he believed differently.<p>

There had been times he had seen a heart beating in that chest even before John came along. A few cases he worked with him, ones that actually moved Sherlock to action, were the ones he worked the very hardest. When so client manage to hit a cord in that well hidden heart, the DI had seen a tenacity to solve cases come out of that man that could have rivaled well over half the police force. Those glimpses were why he trusted Holmes, why he believed in him.

The great detective was all about denying his feelings and being a machine but if he did not just admit his feelings soon the DI expected he might spontaneously combust from all that pressure. Everyone knew how Ms. Hooper felt but after today, he finally had a handle on how their favorite want to be robot felt as well. He simply found himself hoping it was not too late for the idiot to get his chance to tell that girl... however Sherlock told people things like that.

"They find anything?"

The long pause before the reply was telling enough, "I had someone stationed there to watch her but he did not see her leave and he also did not see anyone go into her building beyond the regulars. The lights turned off and she went to bed but when he checked the flat a few minutes ago, there was no Molly."

"Guess your man isn't very good at his job then." Lestrade muttered in irritation, ignoring the obvious breaking and entering involved in checking her location.

"No, he's very good, actually." Sherlock let the phone lower to his lap to drill a hole into the seat in front of him with his eyes, "Which is the problem."

"What do you mean?" Greg turned in his seat to better look at the younger, obviously disquieted man.

"If Billy saw nothing then we can be sure she is in trouble of some nature." Sherlock waved a dismissive hand at him, "Why don't you get on your radio and be useful rather than distracting me?"

At that, Greg shot him a glare, "I don't have my radio, Sherlock, we're in a taxi. I'm using my phone, the same as you are."

Sherlock actually looked at him then, "Why didn't we take your car?"

That brought another scathing glare, "You didn't give me the chance! I tried to suggest it but you just slid into the nearest taxi!"

Sherlock frowned back, though with less venom, "Why didn't you stop me? It's habit to use this form of transportation with John but I would have gone with you if you had the sense to speak up about it."

Greg crossed his arms over his chest, aware he looked like a petulant child, "I didn't think you would even hear me, you're so wrapped up in that phone. You never listen to me normally so I just assumed it would be the same as usual."

The git was always so irritating on cases, or, well, in general. Every wrinkle along his brow he fully blamed Sherlock for. He could not remember having wrinkles before he met the exasperating man! For that matter, his hair used to be darker too! There were times he could almost count John among the Saints for his ability to put up with Sherlock, and Molly too, poor girl. How she fell for a man like this one was very beyond his understanding. Sweet girls like her deserved to be with a man that could actually tell her when he was over the moon for her! People were all crazy, that was all there was to it, and he was crazy too for going along with all of them!

Speaking of crazy, his phone buzzed at him and he was more than slightly surprised; though maybe he should not have been; to see that the message was from Anderson. There was an example of some that had not stood the test of putting up with Sherlock and had fallen well on the side of crazy. People that did not go along with this man tended not to weather life well, so maybe he was doing the sane thing after all. It could just as easily have been Holmes that was the only sane one and the rest of them were mad as March Hares, who really knew?

At any rate, the disgraced old co-worker seemed to be on yet another theory but this one, once he opened the message, was to do with Molly. He dreaded even trying to hear the man out but considering his first line of the message, there was really no way not to look into it as much as he did not care to. Over the years, all the theories had gotten tedious but since the dear little things had gone missing, how exactly could anyone ignore even a ranting man?

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><p>Her vision was hazy and it was so hard to bring her eyes into the places she wanted them. She was aware that she was dreaming though, it had all the telltale signs like the sensation of vertigo and intense desire to run but the limbs fully unable to move more than slightly. This was indeed her room but the lights were all off, the moon the only light drifting into her bedroom but she knew she did not want a better look at her situation. It was a very typical nightmare, complete with being undressed, and topped off with a monster hovering over her. She hated nightmares, she always had, but everyone did so that was not unusual.<p>

James Moriarty was propped on his knees, hands on either side of her head. Her mind had recreated him to a startling perfection so sharp she was a bit worried for herself and how well she obviously memorized him. He looked mainly the same as he had a few years ago; the tiny bump on his nose was still there, low brow still thin and drawing attention perfectly to his void swallowing eyes, those high cheekbones contrasted in the low light as they always had been to make the hollow of his cheeks seem skeletal even though he was not that thin. That ink hair was back to the shorter length he sported while he was Jim from IT, smooth features so alabaster but now blemished by hints of stubble on his upper lip and a little along his jaw. Still, that uncanny playful brilliance thrumming under his skin was both different and the same. She could have been fooled into believing it was her Jim, but the horrific smile and the crazy just clawing out from his eyes gave him away because it made him look so like a demon she used to think could crawl from the shadows in her closet as a child; apparently her childish self had been more right than she knew.

She was fairly sure she was not blinking either, another sign of a dream. Nothing in her body worked, unfair as bad dreams always were, though she would probably wake up before she died since the mind could not ever envision its own end.

"Oh, Molls," His voice was a breathy whisper, the Irish lilt so dominant, his head dropping forward, lips connecting with her collarbone, "I _missed_ you! You have no idea!"

She was very, very aware of her lack of clothing and she wanted to curl into a ball, to get away from his eyes and his touch but she could not move more than to twitch. She might have settled for yelling at him but her tongue was lead in her mouth. It was so horrible not to be able to fight or move or speak.

"My pretty girl..." His face dropped closer, cheek sliding down. his whiskers stinging her tender skin just a bit. "My Molls, Sherlock may _think_ you're all his but he just doesn't realize he has some _very_ strong contenders and that we _never_ miss our marks. Sherlock's pathologist..." She felt him grin against her skin before he planted his lips over her heart, "Not quite, you're mine, you just don't know it yet, but you will."

She wanted to tell him that she was not his at all, and contrary to popular belief, she was her own person and could make her own choices. Of course, she couldn't because her lips did not work. His sharp teeth nipped lightly at the tissue of her breast and then he soothed it with his tongue, something that almost got her into a full sitting position before he leaned his weight over her to push her back down. Molly whined and wheezed her protests but moving took so much out of her that she already felt herself slipping into darkness.

Moriarty took a breath through his nose and sat back on his heels to stare at her in that very skin crawling adoration she once thought was sweet when he was her co-worker but made her whine in distress now, "You're so adorable when you try to fight me, dove, but you'll find out that it's useless." He held up an finger like he could read her thoughts, "Oh, I know, you think you can escape, but really, you can't. Once I'm finished with my project, I'll be around for you and I'll have all the time in the world to make you understand. I get what I want, love, and I decided that Sherlock can't have you."

With that, he leaned back down, dragging his tongue slowly between the hills of her chest, making her twitch, her feet kicking weakly and her lips forming his name in silent protest. She wanted to wake up now before this dream got worse, oh she wanted to wake up! The wicked way he chuckled, so dark like the blackness of space, she found she might never want to sleep again.

His wet muscle traced patterns only he could see over her skin, lips tickling her as he spoke, "You taste as sweet as that nature of yours, my dear, but I think I could make you dark, like black velvet. I'd love to see you stained..." He hummed low in his throat, "Yeah, see, because I have that talent, turning people to the dark side. It worked on Sherlock pretty well." He actually giggled then, "When I'm finished, I promise he won't even know you anymore. You won't ever be able to save him again, you won't even be able to save yourself." He looked up into her eyes, turning his head to rest it on her shoulder, "But don't worry, it won't hurt. It feels good to just let go."

Her eyes rolled as she tried to focus and watch his hand trace over her cut arm, deftly avoiding to red marks, his hands traveling even over the towel bunched at her sides, "No..."

"Hush, Molls, you sound terrible, don't try to talk right now." His fingers shifted and stroked at her face and hair tenderly, tracing feather light over her split lip, "You're part of it all now and there isn't anything you can do to get out. The three of us, when you got tangled with us, you should have known you would _never_ get away. A detective and **_two_** master criminals... there is no going back after _that!_" He smiled so sweetly at her, voice decidedly gentle, Jim from IT showing through, "You surrounded yourself with killer ghosts and we bad boys have a way of getting our way. Good girls and all that."

Moriarty produced one of her bras from her nightstand and she wondered how he knew where they were but then she remembered it was a dream and she calmed a bit, watching tranquilly as he produced one of her button up tops from somewhere else. When he snatched a brush from her nightstand as well, she realized he was going to dress her, like she was his doll and the thought turned her stomach. She wanted the dream to be over, did not want to hear him speak anymore or see his face. Molly had quite enough of the dream and she saw no reason to keep fighting the darkness pulling at her. Why she was so desperate a while ago to fight it, she could not remember. She was done and she knew how to get away. Darkness was not always a bad thing.

As if sensing her slipping away, he caught her chin between his fingers laying heavily over her, "Going to sleep already? You didn't last too long, did you?" He raised his brows and that little 'v' appeared under the wavy wrinkled on his forehead before e laughed again, rolling her head from side to side before he breathed into her ear, "No matter, I'll forgive you. You won't remember tonight, so it's alright, but next time I come see you, things will be different." His voice dropped so dangerously fear sparked up inside her even though she was far gone enough that she barely understood him, "Next time I'll be back to taint you red and next time Molly Hooper will die, then you will be mine forever!"

A weak, scratchy, pitiful cry broke from her as she threw her hands out, the beeping of the machine beside her actually louder than the sound she produced, but she kept trying. Only some of her painful cries left her swollen, parched throat, the others were nothing better than silent shrieks trying to be heard. She was so lost to the drugs dripping into her veins and the residual ones she did not know were in her body that it took her a while to realize she was alone.

Molly's dry tongue licked at her split lip and her wild eyes scanned the room to find where he was hiding. The monitor beside her that kept track of her heart was spiking but she did not really comprehend why it was so close. It was so loud and she wanted it to stop but some part of her mind reminded her not to rip out any of the needles or the clips because she was a doctor and knew she would bleed quite a lot if she began that. She tried to sit up, started to swing her leg out from under the white blanket, but she stopped quickly, falling back into the scratching pillow.

The first thing she actually understood on a real level was that moving hurt quite a lot. Moving pumped her blood and made her head absolutely _throb_. Her brain was imploding and swelling all at once, blades twisting a thrashing inside her skull. A broken moan rolled free as she curled into herself a bit, pain in her joints a terrible ache and her muscles just screaming out of protest from the strain she put them in. Her eyes closed and she squeezed them tight, intent to stay that way until she felt better, because she felt bloody awful!

The door opened then, sending her into another fit of terror, fractured demands for Jim to leave her alone spilling out of her in waves as hands began to paw at her. Molly struggled at first until she realized that those were nurses. Moriarty would not take her to the hospital. She was, she realized with a new jolt of confusion, in a hospital with no knowledge of how she came to be there but she very definitely did not care. She should care, she knew, but she felt too terrible to actually care. Caring would happen later too!

If she held still, the nurses would stop touching her and she could go back to shivering in her misery. The motion did not help her pounding headache either so quiet would be good. She did not like to have people around while she was sick, she wanted to be left alone and sleep off whatever this horrible thing was. Oh, or maybe she should not sleep. She could just curl up quietly instead, that would be best.

"Molly, sweety, can you hear me?" One of the figures spoke to her and she realized that she knew her, a doctor that sometimes came around to her department, an American, but she forgot her name.

"Yes." Molly answered, her voice almost a shock to her as it was so low and rough.

"Good, that's good. Do you remember why you are here?" The little brunette asked.

"Working, I guess." Molly muttered, "I'm a doctor too."

"You are, but you're not working, honey."

"Obviously," Molly muttered, "I was sleeping before, but I'm at my work. I'm on the third floor since that's where you work." If she was being cross she could not tell, she just knew that she wanted to be alone.

"What is the last thing you remember doing?" The nurse beside her asked, petting her arms and making her feel disquieted considering her dream, so she pulled away with a frown.

Though, honestly, all she remembered was the dream, and working a little late. What else would have her here if not working late? That was her best and most logical option. She had been working but now she was sick, probably tried to sleep in off in a vacant bed. People did that in hospitals all the time, or sometimes, not that often actually. She must have done it today. They made her stay late and made her come to the third floor for some reason.

"How long was I sleeping?" Molly asked instead of answering.

"You had a reaction to the medication we gave you." One of them informed her, making her instantly want to ask why they had given her anything at all, but the obvious fact that her question had been dodged had her worried.

"How long?" Molly repeated with a cranky edge to her voice.

"Two days." Another finally answered, "But you are awake now, so not to worry. You were allergic to one of the drugs the medic gave you and it made you sleep."

Now it seemed a rather good time to ask her impulse question, "Why was I given medication? I'm a doctor, why did no one ask me?" Her anger was beginning to rise even though she was not sure why. She did not normally get terribly upset with people she worked with but being told she had been sleeping for two days because someone gave her a drug they shouldn't have was rather pissing her off!

"You were in an accident, Molly. You were on a bus when it blew a tire." The doctor she knew squeezed her hand, "But you were very lucky! You were not injured badly. You would have been recovered long ago if not for the allergic reaction."

The door opened again, a tall, curly haired, familiar face entering to draw all eyes. He stood there silently, gripping the door as he waited to be scolded for coming, but the doctor said nothing, ignoring him to finish her duty. He was bundled up, scarf pulled tightly around his neck as he just watched the little gaggle of hens work her over. Molly stared at him as she let them fuss and check over her, mainly ignoring them. Tom shifted from foot to foot with nervous energy, seeming unsure or uncomfortable with the situation.

While she answered more questions, she paid little real attention to them. Her head hurt her too much to really bother focusing. Having him standing there to give her something to focus on was rather a good thing, grounding her in the flurry of the other women. Whatever they did with her, she did not care, so long as they made her feel better. She worked with dead people but they were used to living subjects so they should be able to up her pain medication or something. Molly was not focusing on any of their acts, focused more on a lack of acknowledgement. While she knew very well that she should care, should feel some need to take part in conversation or questioning, she simply did not have the energy to bother. Molly was finished caring until she felt human, she could let someone else care for the day. She closed her eyes in hopes that they would be more inclined to leave her be if they thought she was fading.

It took a while more of them poking at her before they began to sift away. None of them spoke to Tom even though they seemed to know about him. Office gossip spread widely and not one of them seemed to wonder why he was there, all with unspoken acceptance that he was always lurking around the hospital waiting for the girl that rejected him; rejecting what was her one and only chance at a normal life, that was what they all thought. For a few moments Molly thought he left with them but when the hard leather of the chair by her bed groaned she knew he was only being quiet. She cracked open one eye to find him glaring daggers at his phone while he read something, the innocent face twisted with spite at whoever his fast typed reply was to.

Molly did not actually feel like being social nor even cordial but a deep sense of decency within her absolutely forced the issue. Even when she raged at people in her head, telling them all the things she really thought, there was an infinitesimal amount of times she let any of it out. There were times she hated how damn nice she was, really hated it. Why she could not be more like Sherlock some days was beyond her, but maybe that was what she loved most about that man.

After what happened to Sherlock though and after realizing their last encounter, had he died from the wound, would have been a horrible memory to live with, her ingrained niceness had worked more overtime than normal. Though, honestly, there was never a thing in her life she could not talk herself into feeling guilty over, but that was how she was. Having people die after slapping them though, that would have taken the cake for reasons to feel guilty till her last days.

She did wish it was Sherlock sitting in that chair even if he never spoke a single word, him sitting there would be nice. Granted, she had not visited him in the hospital, but that was not fully her fault, but now she was rambling inside her own head. A bad sign.

Molly closed her open eyes again before she used her rough voice to quiet her conscience, "How are you, Tom?"

She could just feel his eyes turn up to her and she could hear the frown in his voice, "I do believe that was to be my line." Tom paused, seeming to think that over, "Or, well, I mean to ask how _you_ were, not to inquire about myself, obviously."

"Obviously." Molly muttered, almost smiling at his usual awkward way, "But answer my question anyway."

The chair creaked again as he leaned up, his warm fingers very delicately linked with the tips of hers, "I would be better if you had never ended up here."

Molly kept her eyes closed, not caring to show him any emotion at all, especially since she was unsure what she actually felt, "How does that answer my question? Me sitting - lying- here has nothing to do with how you are."

"It has more to do with it than you could possibly know, Molly." He sounded so secretive suddenly that it made her want to pull her hand away even though she had no idea why. "Believe me, what happened to you has quite a lot to do with how I am feeling."

"I'm sorry." She replied instantly, the reflexive response all she could even think of to say.

"Don't be." His fingers gave hers a light squeeze, "Nothing is your fault. I don't want you to apologize for being hurt, I want you to hurry and get better."

Molly finally opened her eyes to slits, staring at his through her lashes as he seemed to study her hand and the needle placed there, "I'm working on it. If I hadn't had a reaction, they tell me I would have been quite on my way by now."

"So I heard from a nurse." He muttered lowly, strangely rather quietly furious sounding.

"Don't get upset, Tom. It happens sometimes." Molly frowned, blinking slowly as he locked eyes with her, "Though they best have put that into my medical history for the future or I think I have grounds for a pricey lawsuit."

That got him to finally smile as he fingered her thumb, "That you would, I suppose. Lawsuits take a while... and you might have a hard time getting the money out of the person at fault."

"Why should I care as long as I get money out of it?" Her lips turned up at him, bringing a better smile from him in return.

The smile faded and he leaned closer, puppy eyes scanning her face, hands moving to pet her arm, "What do you remember about it?"

She looked away, unsure why it felt so intrusive when he asked her that way, like he was asking for a reason, "Not very much... nothing actually. I should maybe be worried about that, but I can't seem to be bothered by it. I almost think I like not remembering, somehow."

"I understand. It was frightening and traumatic, I can imagine." Tom leaned up out of his chair to place a few kisses to her forehead, "You should just let it stay that way for now. Don't push yourself."

Molly discretely shifted her position so that he would not notice her moving her head away, "I suppose." She let her eyes close again in hopes that he would take hints.

"You were fortunate though. Things like that are unpredictable and dangerous, you never know what to expect from volatile things. There is so much danger in the world, you can hardly go to bed or get on a bus without worrying." He was rattling on like he was thinking too much.

"I'm very tired." She muttered softly to further hint at what she wanted without being openly rude, "You would think I'd have slept enough after two days."

Tom leaned over and kissed her head again, "It's just your body recovering, don't fight it." He ran his fingers over the curve of her head, "I will let you rest now, but I will be back soon."

Molly nodded silently, regretting moving so much once she had. She was low on her goodwill so she was only too happy to see him go. All she wanted was to be left to herself and suffer like a whining child without anyone seeing her do it. It was humiliating to whine and complain if anyone was present to know about it. She might have been prideful, she supposed, but she hated having to pretend when she could drop her guard and be a child. Without letting reactions slip free, she relished it when he pulled away and made his way to the door.

Sherlock probably would have had the courtesy to have sat there more quietly. Or, he also might have drilled he for answers, that was also possible. Either way, even if he had made a pest of himself, she would have felt so much better to see him in her little white room. He would not be showing his face though, he was on a case and she was the last thing on his mind. She still had preference for his company. If he had been there she would have felt safest too. He would not be coming though and she knew that; she still only got the ones she did not want.

* * *

><p>The hallway was clear as the young sniper made his way down the pristine white and tan hallways. Hospitals had very disgustingly limited capacity for colors and creativity, almost like they were simply all too caught up in those beeping machines to consider that they might be killing their charges with boredom alone. Of course, nurses tried to make up for the dull atmosphere with cheery and overly bright scrubs, many with cartoon characters plastered over every piece. That was almost as bad as the dull colors.<p>

There were days he considered just setting a match to some stack of bedding just to see a little life come into the place. It was sickeningly dull and that just made him want to pull out his gun and start shooting at the first groups he saw. He did not hate people, nor did he love them either, viewing most as nothing more than a statistic, but he just hated the mundane and monotonous droning they tended toward. He wanted to stir it up to give himself a reason to laugh. Sebastian loathed the beehive mentality of most people, the drone and worker bee status that everyone tended to let themselves be placed in. People were not interesting on their own, they needed a push; he learned that if nothing else from drama classes in school. The only way to make it alive was to add a little chaos into the mix; see who was worth their air and who deserved to be shot in the brain to rid them from the future.

Truth be told, despite his compulsion to have things neat and exact, a place for everything and everything in its place, he was a lover of chaos in other respects of life. Things had to be in their place, papers, pens, door nobs, but people needed to be something different. People only interested him if they were given reason to live and be something more than drones to a hive. The majority of people were nothing more than extras in the sets, props that had no value after the curtain fell.

No one liked the bringers of change, but what was life without a little change? Life was a stage and every play needed those diabolical players to make it worth watching. As long as the numbers fit, he was just fine with change. If the actors lent interest to the scene, they were useful, but if not, they were useless. He hated boring productions! He was fine with change so long as he caused it.

Speaking of change, the additional song programmed into the horrible preset radio should play fairly soon once it cycled into the mix. He only wished he could be around to see Molly's reaction. If she noticed in her rather dull state of mind, of course. Those drugs clearly had put her through a spin cycle and made her just a bit less sharp than she should have been. She was less herself, less witty, less interesting.

Tom tugged at his coat, buttoning it up as he made ready to leave. He was quite finished with this little set for now, his act here completed. No one even questioned his roaming about since he had so well established his place there as Molly's love sick leading man eager to win his sweetheart back. He was a staple player in the hospital drama and they never thought to ask why he was there anymore, they assumed he was there for her. Foolish people, even less witty than his roll as "Tom."

Speaking of less witty, he had someone to pay a visit tonight. A staged robbery would do rather nicely, he thought. She had been on the list for a while but he had not taken the time to actually scratch her off. Jim would be paying his old stray cat a visit soon, insisted she was all his and only his to play a final scene with. It would be a touching little play, the last goodbye between master and pet. Moriarty took pleasure enough in shooting at her, he knew, so the last stand would be grand. He really should demand a filming! While he was at that though, it seemed as good a time as any to take care of his target. While she had never been the best of puppets on strings, she was still one of the key actors in the last production, and the puppet actors had to go. This was a totally new stage and the old supporting cast needed to be gotten rid of. Only the main actors were allowed to switch stages and play new parts. That was show business!

The phone in his pocket began to sing its little chorus of "Ghost Busters", the ringtone he set for one particular man, and he glared flaming daggers at the wall. He was still angry about the little trick, about the blaring and blatant lie from the last call! Savor it, right! His feet brought him to a stop as he fished the phone from his pocket irritably, sliding his thumb over the screen before growling a "what" into it.

"So, how is our little Molls?" James asked in his overly typical sing-song tone.

"What happened to waiting? Did you not tell me we were going to wait?" Tom shot back, letting almost all his irritation into his voice, "That is what I want to know!" He sighed when he heard the indignant sniff on the other end, "And how do you think she is? She's been out for two days thanks to you!"

"I changed my mind, decided I needed something from her. You will thank me later, after I've cleaned up your little mess." Moriarty huffed dramatically in irritation, "But really, I don't see how you can say it's my fault those idiots gave her something that reacts badly with what I gave her! How could I have known what stupid people might do?"

"You're supposed to know everything." Sebastian sneered.

"And you said you contaminated all her samples the day before we traded places. You sneaked in when she went for coffee and were supposed to have fixed your own mistake." Moriarty chided lightly, "Now I have to go to all this trouble because you did not check to see if she sent any samples off to another lab." A door thumped closed on the other end with a beep.

* * *

><p>The security door was a breeze, his little badge fixing job had been flawless as ever. Jim cradled the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he slid the badge before the next door, waiting until the satisfying beep that admitted him inside. The supposed smart badges these facilities used was really a stupid idea. If, say, someone killed the employee in a staged accident to take their place, what good did a badge do? The hallway camera system was strangely down for what would be the span of seven minutes too, and that would mean they would miss all sorts of things! No, <em>wait<em>, it was that new staff member watching the cameras today; how _convenient_; make that twelve minutes. Clumsy of them to short circuit this side of the building, very clumsy! No one was smart enough to keep the monsters out of their homes, it was pitiful, just pitiful! No one was any good at all with security, which was why he managed his own!

They had not even removed a dead man from the security clearance yet. _Clumsy!_ But anticipated! They never got around to clearing the codes for three days and he knew that already because the technician was lazy! Or, rather, he was dead from a tragic accident and his replacement had yet to arrive to reconfigure the systems. Oh well, their loss, now wasn't it?

The backpack was slung over his shoulder, ball cap in place, gate adjusted to fit the stride of his dead counterpart technician just in case. "So here I am, trimming up your loose ends, Sebs! We can't have your blood and skin running around out in the world of angels, so here I am! I'm being nice, so why are you mad?"

"I don't like it when you lie to me!" The other man's voice crackled over the line, "How can I do my job if I don't know what you're really doing?"

People did not call Sebastian a tiger for nothing. He could be ruthless, a true killer of masters, and do it without batting an eye. He thought nothing about killing someone that was in the way. Like Jim, his emotions and values had been slightly skewed by life and it made him an excellent assassin. Morals were relative to the situation. While they lived by a code, as everyone did, they understood how far to push the lines. Admittedly, Jim loved to push the sniper's little lines to stretch him a bit. It was not good for a man to be too set in his ways even if he risked said man's wrath.

He did so hate to be stretched, loved his little boxes and his rows to be neat. The consulting criminal could hardly fault him for his love of numbers, sharing that hobby to an extent, but he would not let him be tied to it. Quite an artist with a gun and a musician with a blade, but he could be stuck in his ruts. All creative people were eccentric though, he should know! That was why he endeavor to assist the dear sniper.

"Relax, I was just having a bit of fun, setting a few more fires! It will work out perfectly, you will see!" He chuckled through his nasal cavity, "We get to watch him burning alive a little more every day, so what does it matter?"

"I want to know what you're doing so I know how to react!"

A smile spread wide over Jim's face as he hurried into the evidence room, "But look how well were are doing! Have you seen them dance? That is all us! We are good at this even if we improvise a few details!" The bag thumped off his shoulder onto the metal table as he swiftly began seeking out what he needed from the content, "It's what makes us the best, our adaptability!"

"I like to create chaos, not be in it." His voice was getting lower, he was getting angry, "You know how much I hate not being told how the show is supposed to go."

"Alright, grouchy! I'll be sure to keep you up to speed." Jim purred at him, lilting his voice playfully, "But be sure you keep an eye on our girl. Things are going to start happening soon and our revenge will set sail."

"It can't come too soon for me." The tone was already lighter, his anger swayed. "But you watch what your doing now, don't slip up. You know how you get when you're too caught up in the game."

With that, the call ended and Moriarty tossed the phone into the bag. "Nothing wrong with having a little _fun_."

Life was dull without playing a game or two! Games kept the mind sharp if there were other good players involved. Sherlock enjoyed a good game but he had so much trouble listening to the rules, or listening to the clues. He had a sharp, sharp mind but only if he saw things the right way. Moriarty told him exactly what he planned to do from the very first, in the lab, at the pool, in every moment they had. God, he even set his ringtones for the end games! Sherlock saw everything and was uncannily good at reading people and situations but he could be so dense!

Molly was dense too but in a different way. That girl read people the way even he could not, she saw past the first layers of a person and got down to their tender flesh, the parts they were most afraid to let someone see. There were times she almost seemed to have a sort of sixth sense, almost like she knew things no one else did. Somehow, she sensed things that others were blind to, like some sort of modern day Seer. Her eyes saw vulnerability but she used it differently than most people with that strange talent.

Her sense could be fooled though, at least in part. Give her something that she wanted to believe over the truth and that would be her undoing. She liked to believe in people, believe in the good parts of them. It was true, she had a skill for bringing to good out of people, but it was also true that she was optimistically blind.

Sherlock's mind could be fooled, at least partly. Give him a puzzle and let him have a wildly complex answer to go with a simple one and he would inevitably dash for the more interesting. Hand him a puzzle and he wanted it to be grand, leaving himself open to be lead the wrong way.

As for he and Sebastian... they had weaknesses too, unfortunately.

What was interesting though, was one very simple factor that he seemed to be the only one to have noticed; all three men had one pulsing nerve of weakness in common. They each shared a weakness they could neither explain nor be rid of. One little optimistic girl had a finger on each of their weakest sides. What exactly she found to tangle her fingers into was still a mystery to him, the how of what she had done to them, but she had done it all the same.

Pretty little Molly Hooper had three larger-than-life men on a string. That just made the game that much more interesting! It made it more dangerous for all of them too because knights in shining armor or knights in black armor aside, a knight would fight a challenger for the hand of a lady fair. An angel would fall to his death for her, and a demon would kill for her. Molly was a little virus in their game of wits, and it would be hard to decide how to handle it. For now, they would all be using her and fighting for her at the same time. That made for a confusing set of rules.

The hearts of even cruel men were unpredictable... and he already missed that little angel. He would have to solve her part in the game, though he already knew how, just not how it would end. She was the wild card in their game and she made it all about skill and chance as well. For now, he would begin to work on her, work on Sherlock through her, and maybe end up burning them all alive while he was at it.

That was why the game was fun though, the risk!

Sebastian was unlikely to turn on him, but there was always that slight chance since the assassin was not even aware of his own obsession any more than Sherlock was yet. James, a fellow obsessee had come to terms with the mystery that was Molly Hooper, which had him at an advantage. He did not fear the potential competition, relished it really!

He was not afraid of the sniper because he would always be the boss, and that was that. And, because of that, he would share Molly with him so long as he remained the dominant force. He could accept a little give and take, at least he thought he could. One never knew, he might change his mind and surprise himself. Risk!

Oh, there was that pesky sample! With a sigh of relief he reached into the case and tugged it out, checking the numbers to be sure he had it right. For good measure he also stole the ones beside it, always good to head off potential problems with a preemptive strike. This evidence just could not get around when the game was not finished. Before he left he would snatch up all the files and erase every single thing regarding little Tom's secret second job. James Moriarty saved the day once again, and he would also be planting a few things while he was at it, little things for Sherlock.

* * *

><p>The low, sterile lights reflected off the gleaming metal tables and glass bottles about the room. As was very typical, the great detective was hunched over a pile of evidence, the clothing, the dead judges, in this case. It was deathly silent, a bit like the morgue a few doors down. The two figured in the room had spoken little, making the air seem all the more stale for the lack of life given to it. Even though there had been no use of chemicals yet the stench of years of past use hung like a fog about the entire room, mixing only with ammonia, and the smell of the people that frequented the lab the most.<p>

Molly, for example, never wore perfume in the lab but she had a very natural smell that was strangely calming, bit like a spa, comparable to lavender. Sherlock did not wear much in the way of cologne but his coat gathered up the smell of each time he ever had in his life and held it there like some sort of air freshener. John, the blogger, used a shaving cream that smelled of pine and balsa wood. Lestrade's Old Spice was even lingering in the air though he had not been around since the day before.

Being in a lab was a veritable attack on the nose each and every time anyone visited since it held those mixes so well over time. The two men occupying the space had grown used to it though as well as the silence and cold atmosphere of the place. Whenever Molly was there, it seemed to warm somehow, but when she was gone the chill set in again.

"Shouldn't you check on Molly?" John prompted, pushing at him in the casual tone.

"I fed her cat." Sherlock did not so much as look up, pretending not to notice the verbal elbowing John had a way of dishing out.

"Don't you think it would be a good idea to see her, maybe put a few questions to her?" John was not yet deterred.

"Lestrade can do that, I'm on a case, John. She was in a car accident that has nothing to do with Moriarty." Sherlock's voice had grown tense, one of his very few tells.

"You don't sound so sure about that." The doctor leaned his back against the wall as he watched the other man sift through the clothing spread over the lab tables. "Doesn't it seem a bit odd that she slipped away from one of your people, not knowing he was even there, just to get herself into an accident on a bus she would never have gotten on?" He lifted a finger and pressed it to his own lips a moment before continuing. "And we can't find her bag. You mentioned that yourself since it was not on the bus or at her place, so where is it? And-"

"Stop, John, you're distracting me." Sherlock muttered.

"Why won't you let me talk about it?" John crossed his arms in that very unique, guarded way of his that meant he was anything but relaxed, "Even Greg thinks what the girl saw seems odd. Who would walk into a bus and just leave the scene like that unless he was there for a reason?"

"Lestrade is letting Anderson talk too much! I told him to stop listening." The detective slammed a slide under the scope and hunched over it, "That girl told us nothing, couldn't remember a thing. She was useless!"

"What if Anderson is right, or, rather, onto something in a round about way?"

"Molly is not in liege with Moriarty, John!" Sherlock's head snapped up, finally fixing his eyes fully on the other man with a scowl.

John held up a finger to stop a tirade, "That was not exactly what he said, he said he thought there were too many connections between them to be coincidental."

"The fact that he did not target her is not a connection, it shows he did not see her as important any more than anyone ever thinks she is." Sherlock turned his body around to face his partner, fingers locked in a tight grip over the counter rim, "And he dated her to get to me, not because she meant anything to him."

"But Sherlock," John sounded utterly imploring, "what about the evidence?"

Blue-green eyes narrowed, "I explained that! That was clearly my fault. The cat hairs were on me from earlier in the day when I visited her flat, it is as simple as that. I don't see how you could think Molly had anything to do with those deaths. Toby's hair was on me and was transferred to that woman's body."

"You don't make mistakes like that." John persisted, "And I did not see any hair on your coat."

"I'm not used to being around cats so I'm unaccustomed to worrying about it clinging to me." His fingers flexed harder around the table, "But why are you unwilling to consider the hairs were accidentally transferred from Molly in the lab? That is equally possible."

John's voice took on a placating tone of lightness and slow words, "We never said she was a killer, we just wondered if it was possible that he could be using her again. He fooled her once." He was picking his words carefully, "And why did she not realize when she was testing the fibers, the hairs, that they were her cat's? You realized it not too long after looking at them and you compared them to her cat's. Molly's notes said they were animal hair, even cat hair, but why did she not notice?"

"Oh, stop it!" Sherlock growled before whipping around to face the scope again, "You are just projecting onto Molly all your personal unresolved feelings of mistrust in M-" He stopped himself instantly, clamping his eyes closed to ignore the quiet intake of breath behind him.

There was a long while of tense silence between them until John finally spoke again in a nearly choked voice, "Maybe you're right, but that only proves that you have been wrong before, that you're not infallible! You haven't seen things before. Even with Moriarty himself, that first time you met him, you did not see what he was!" A pregnant pause followed again before John persisted, "And why, do you suppose you didn't notice him? Hmm? Maybe because you were too distracted by how he hovered beside her? Because Molly bringing a strange man in had your mind focused more on how it might change things between you and your pathologist than about him? Did you ever stop to think that it was Molly that threw that great mind of yours off, not just his rather good acting skills?"

Sherlock's own voice had a tight sound to it, a deeper depth within that did nothing to belie his desire to speak of anything else in the world, "I don't care what Anderson said. Molly has never been my weakness. She helps me, and I do trust her, but she has never done me a moment of damage."

"Maybe." John turned around and walked toward the double doors, "I need some coffee."

* * *

><p>AN: I wasn't sure what you'd all thing of the bonusy bit with Jim and Molly but I put it in anyway because it shows a little more of what he's like. And no, he didn't do more than that once she was asleep, for everyone's peace of mind. I don't actually think he would. In his very strange way, he has a code of honor. He plays games but the other side always has a shot to win too. It would defeat the purpose of a game if Molly didn't have a chance.<p>

Tom and Molly's conversation was just fuuuull of hidden meanings on his side, if you all noticed. He's such a liar, liar-dee-liar.

As to Sherlock, I believe he has a huge blind spot in regard to Molly. When he realized she had spent all night in her lab, because he always knows, he did things to make her feel safe, but I don't think he would wholeheartedly believe she would be high risk even though she did all that. Sherlock tends to have these huge people blind spots, like how it took him almost dying to realize he needed Molly and cared about her. Similarly, he would have a hard time seeing her in danger because he doesn't want to. Kind of like I don't think he would even think Mycroft could ever be in danger because it's never happened before, so obviously it never could. Sherlock is very much a child in some ways. Buuut, as all things do, Sherlock will see change.  
>I also think that random acts of kindness are how he shows affection. He doesn't say it, perish the thought that he might admit to feelings, but he does little things that prove it, in his mind. Like taking Molly on a case solving day, he didn't say anything till she forced him to. He shows first, never tells.<p> 


End file.
